Prayers to Broken Stone
by Avelera
Summary: Driven mad by dragon sickness, Thorin banishes the company and locks himself inside Erebor. Days pass, and fearing for Thorin's safety, Bilbo descends into Erebor to find him. Instead, Bilbo discovers Thorin slowly becoming a dragon himself, and must do what he can to save him before Thorin succumbs to a curse that twists his body and mind. (Thorin/Bilbo, BoFA AU, novel-length)
1. Chapter 1

**_Prayers to Broken Stone_**

**Disclaimer:** All characters, locations, and some direct quotes belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. The chapter poem belongs to T.S. Eliot. I seek no commercial gain from this piece, etc. etc.

**Author Note:** (The only long one, I promise!)

First of all I need to thank my astounding betas **Bending-Sickle** and **Kalthia** for their work on this fic. My rough prose transformed before my eyes under their hand and I can confidently say it would be a very muddled read without their work. Thank you so much, darlings!

This fic began as an experiment in how much I could write without discussing my work with anyone. Apparently it was a successful experiment, as the fic ballooned from the 20,000 words I originally planned to the 60,000+ novel you see before you. There was much pain and cursing along the way, and countless hours of effort have gone into polishing this final product. The entire fic is about 90% finished as of the posting date of the first chapter so no need to worry about it being abandoned half way. Any delays in posting are only a product of the final polishing and editing process.

I recommend you check out **avelera. tumblr tagged / here-there-be-dragons** where I have a scrapbook of sorts of all the fanart, meta, and posts that inspired this fic, as well as a steady stream of frustrated ramblings by the author as it was written. I will be posting further author notes and commentary on the chapters as they are posted, so do be sure to check back regularly if such things interest you!

This fic is dedicated to **Japankasagi**, who with a wayward comment set my mind alight with the possibilities of a very literal interpretation of dragon sickness. Love you, dear!

The poem at the end of this chapter and every chapter that follows is "The Hollow Man" by T.S. Eliot. Obviously I take no credit. There are also various direct quotes and paraphrases from "The Hobbit" by J.R.R. Tolkien which I will not mark out specifically as I find such things distracting, just know that if you recognize a quote I probably didn't write it and take no credit.

* * *

_"Go down now to your friends!" he said to Bilbo, "or I will throw you down."_

A hush fell over the company and for a moment all that could be heard was the winter wind as it hissed and shrieked over the cracks in the mountain. Color gathered high in Bilbo's cheeks, as if he had been struck, but there was iron and defiance in him still, even if it was set to the ill purpose of defending his thievery. He stood tall when not a moment before he had shuddered and twisted in Thorin's grasp over the precipice.

"What about the gold and silver?" asked Bilbo. His voice was soft and Thorin remembered from it stolen moments in the Elvenking's dungeon, in Laketown, and at the hidden door. Before the dragon, before things had become…complicated. What indeed of the gold and silver? Was it rage burning inside him, or shame? He remembered his grandfather then, wandering the treasury in his delirium. How, when the dragon came, Thrór had chased a falling jewel into certain death while his people burned.

But this is different, Thorin reminded himself. These were thieves and brigands, come to his door with swords to pick over the corpses of his people. Twisting his burglar to their ends, it was their fault! Well, if they would corrupt his burglar so, let them keep him!

"That shall follow after, as can be arranged." For there to be any other meaning to Bilbo's question, that it might carry concern for _Thorin_ rather than concern for the treasure, did not bear thinking. Better to assume otherwise, that Bilbo was thinking only of his own share. Well, if the burglar would act the mercenary, let him be treated as one! "Get down!"

Thorin saw Bilbo's expression hardened. Bilbo never had been one to allow his true meaning to be ignored, but the rage thrumming in Thorin's veins told him it was not disapproval of his sidestepping, disapproval that made Thorin feel smaller than the hobbit. The rage pushed back, told him it was suspicion in Bilbo's eyes, that he would not receive his equal share of the treasure. Bilbo seemed prepared to say something when voices came from below.

"Until then we keep the stone," cried Bard.

"You are not making a very splendid figure as King under the Mountain," said Gandalf. "But things may change yet." Thorin turned back, placing his hands on the wall as he shouted to the carrion eaters below.

"They may indeed," said Thorin. Gandalf too? He should have suspected as much of the meddling windbag, ever taking the side of Men, Elves, and thrice-damned Hobbits! Well they would see about that. Soon Dáin would come with his armies and the axes of the dwarves would be upon them. Overrun with fire and blood, they would see then if they could keep hold of the Arkenstone in dead hands! Then they would see if there was any truth to the immortality of Elves and wizards.

Thorin's thoughts thus turned to the future; he paid no mind to the hobbit in question as Bilbo watched him. His fingers dug into the stone at the thought of descending, sword in hand, an army at his back, upon the Men and Elves below, and the sound of scratching rock was swallowed by the wind.

Bilbo turned to face the company and shared a long, quiet look with Balin, his eyes bewildered and pleading with the older dwarf. Something passed between them then, something more than the shame and pity that traveled on silent currents between the members of the company as they watched their leader cast out the one who had brought them so far and saved them from so many evils. Had Bilbo turned to go then they may have maintained that silence, following their leader as they had sworn.

Instead, Balin looked to Thorin, whose hands were clenched on the stone wall as he glared black death upon those gathered below. Then he looked to Bilbo, standing pale but unflinching, desperate for some sign of support from his companions. For surely they must all see it, how something was terribly wrong in the heart of Erebor, even now with the dragon dead and the gold lying unguarded within.

Balin cleared his throat. "Bad business it was, splitting the company like that, leaving the other lads behind. A bad business indeed." The company started, looking to one another as if coming out of a dream. Bilbo too looked up in surprise and stopped his movement towards the edge of the parapet.

"I suspect, were Fíli and Kíli here, they'd have some words for their uncle," Balin continued.

"Silence, Balin. This is not the time," Thorin said without turning.

"Words regarding Bilbo as well. Thorin, have you lost your mind?" Balin came alongside him and hissed the last into Thorin's ear.

"Do not speak to me of madness," Thorin snarled. "It is not madness to protect the legacy of our people from thieves."

"It is if you would risk all of our lives to do so," said Balin. Thorin turned and glared at Balin. The older dwarf stood as Bilbo had, unyielding, a frown twisting beneath his snowy beard. Between the two of them Thorin felt the wall behind him like a trap closing around him.

But the sense of being cornered only served to sharpen his anger, and Thorin's expression soured. "If you would take his side then go with him! I will not be questioned by my own _subjects_ in front of our enemies." A gasp went up from the other dwarves, and something shifted in the air as those words escaped. The company was staring as if they did not know him. Even Dwalin grimaced and crossed his arms, looking down at the stone cobbles of the parapet.

"Subjects? Well, I suppose that's true. The Mountain is yours, and you are King," said Balin slowly. "But Gandalf is right, Thorin. It is one thing to retake Erebor and another to keep it. Chasing away the one who helped you gain it, well, it doesn't sit right. And I suspect it doesn't sit right with the others either."

Ori and Bombur looked as if they wanted nothing more than to hide behind their brothers and cousins but Glóin, Dori, and Nori were exchanging silent looks that held in them a nod of agreement. There was a general shifting and shuffling of feet.

"If you would keep the company intact…" Thorin began. Balin's shoulders rose, hope dawning in his eyes. "Then you may go with him. All of you."

Balin's face fell and a cry went up from the company, including the bear-like rumble of shock from Dwalin as he glanced between his brother and his lord.

"Balin, really, that isn't necessary," Bilbo said, putting a hand on Balin's elbow.

"You don't agree with my decision?" Thorin said, rounding on the company. "Ungrateful lot, begone from my sight! There is no place in Erebor for traitors such as you!" He looked to each of them in turn as their eyes widened, they ducked their heads or stared back at him, challenging. "You all heard me well. Get down!"

"Thorin…" Balin said, putting out a hand.

"Now!" Thorin roared, then turned to Bard and Gandalf below, who watched in silence. "Take them or slay them, I care not. There is no deal."

With that he turned back to the great iron door that lead out from the parapet and before any could stop him, slammed it shut behind him.

Dwalin was the first to the door, pounding it with his fists and tugging at the handle, Dori joining him to try to pry the thing open by sheer force, but it would not budge. There was no key, no other means of returning into the mountain, so one by one the remaining company filed down the steep slope of the mountain and into the waiting camp of Gandalf and Bard. So distracted were they by their misery that not even Bilbo, usually keen of eye, thought to look closer at the spot where Thorin had stood. For where his fingers had clenched and unclenched on the parapet were ten newly carved gashes like chisel marks into stone.

* * *

Once in the camp they found they were not alone. Bofur, Fíli, and a newly healed Kíli were fighting towards them through the crowd as they descended.

"Bilbo!" Bofur cried as the three trotted to a halt. "You're alive! We feared the worst, what with the dragon. Crashed right into Laketown it did, right atop our heads, it's a wonder we made it…" Bofur trailed off, noting the grim set to Bilbo's face, the somber tone of the rest of the company.

"Where's Thorin?" said Fíli.

"Thorin has locked himself within the mountain," said Balin.

"But he'll come out soon, right?" said Kíli. "He has to."

"Perhaps a reminder that no one can eat gold will be good for him," Balin said, giving a reassuring pat on the shoulder to Kíli, but the look he exchanged with Bilbo spoke volumes. They turned and looked to the silent bulk of Erebor behind them and never before had King Under the Mountain seemed so apt a title.

Hours passed, and was still there was no word from Thorin, for though many attempts were made to call to their leader from the door, none were answered.

Then, in the pre-dawn light of the following day they heard the first rumbling. Like an earthquake, it roused those members of the company who remembered the first coming of Smaug and they leapt to their feet, racing out of their tents to the ledge below the gates.

With a deafening crash that shook the earth beneath them and shattered the ear even from a mile's distance with the wrenching shriek of stone on stone, a huge shelf of the mountain gave way, and crashed down before the stone sentinels of the entrance to Erebor. Blocking the entrance.

"Thorin!" Fíli and Kíli cried. Bilbo gave a strangled yelp at their side, reaching out as if he could part the stone with his will alone.

"I did not expect this," Balin said, coming alongside them.

"What was that? What's going on? Balin, Thorin could be trapped in there, or worse!"

Balin shook his head. "That was no accident. Thorin has triggered one of the old defenses. There will be no going in or out of the mountain save by the secret door. He has determined to wait out our siege."

"There's no food in there, he'll starve before then!"

Balin considered this, looking troubled. "Then there may be something else he is waiting for."

* * *

**The Hollow Man  
**by TS Eliot

I  
We are the hollow men  
We are the stuffed men  
Leaning together  
Headpiece filled with straw. Alas!  
Our dried voices, when  
We whisper together  
Are quiet and meaningless  
As wind in dry grass  
Or rats' feet over broken glass  
In our dry cellar

* * *

**Author Note:** As stated above, the poem running through this fic at the end of every chapter is "The Hollow Man" by T.S. Eliot.

Thank you for reading! Hours of work went into this fic and it would mean ever so much to me to hear what you think so far. Even the smallest comment can change the course of this author's day.


	2. Chapter 2

Golden coins trickled between his fingers and for the first time Thorin reviewed the memories of his grandfather wandering these halls and thought, _Yes, I understand now_.

It had been three days since he collapsed the entrance to Erebor, left open and gaping to outside enemies when Smaug crashed his way into the open air, streaming molten gold and curses. Had someone triggered these defenses in time, all those years ago, Erebor may not have fallen. Thorin had dwelled on these thoughts as he readied the charges to cleave the stone, gnawing on anger as if it were an old bone.

After the stone collapsed he returned to the treasury. The first night, he had tried to find shelter in one of the many bedrooms but in every one he found crumbled wood and moldy blankets, if not the degrading skeletons of his kin, clutching one another as they huddled togehter in their final moments. Only the treasury was free of their corpses, those constant reminders of his failure, and he passed the night sleeping atop one of the softer piles of gold, if such a thing could be said to exist, a scavenged sword and shield at his side.

Strangely, he awoke without any feeling of discomfort. Awareness returned slowly and he stretched, luxuriating in what felt like the finest down mattress, pleasant dreams of carven gems drifting through his sluggish mind. Never had he slept so well, or so deeply, and he faced the day with renewed vigor. Briefly did his thoughts turned to food, and in what manner he might would sustain himself until the armies of Dáin arrived. There was still the hidden door left open on the side of the mountain, which could well be surrounded by his traitorous companions and the thieving hobbit if they were wont to return to his good graces. But he found he was not hungry and instead spent the day wandering the treasury, marveling at great pieces of craft and art long forgotten, such marvels of weapons and armor as would make the great cities of Men weep at their glory.

All his.

On the third morning he slept half the day away and thought he could become used to this. For months he had slept ill upon the road, having always been a light sleeper, but he would not admit to the company that the snoring of the other dwarves was a constant grate on his nerves, and even before the road his rest had been plagued. For decades he had feared for his people, for the mountain, for his missing father, his widowed sister and her sons, for his companions and whether his people would ever regain their glory or fade out in poverty and ignominy, as had the Petty-dwarves.

Fears no longer, he thought as he shook his head from them. The mountain was theirs now, with all its boundless wealth. He had regained their homeland, as he swore he would, and claimed lordship over it. Never again would a dwarf of Erebor feel want, or hunger.

Hunger. Three days and he had felt not a pang. It was as if he lived on the air of his homeland alone. A troubling thought. But then that second voice, the one that had spoken in the thrumming rage of his heart, reminded him he had been too long with Men, and weak Hobbits who required many meals a day. A Dwarf need not stuff himself so regularly. Doubtless it was the satisfaction brought by the end of his many decades work to reclaim his home that sustained him now. When Dáin arrived they would feast.

Again he found himself wandering back to the treasury, for he had not gone far, only to the throne room to gaze upon the empty socket where the Arkenstone should dwell. The loss sat heavy in his heart, the missing jewel that should crown the great hoard. But returning to the wide swaths of gold, shifting like sand dunes beneath his feet as he walked among the riches, brought instant calm. It was as if he could feel every individual coin of the vast wealth, each jewel and dagger. He felt that, should he so choose, he could close his eyes and point out the location of the smallest glass bead, and keenly feel its loss should it be taken.

He settled down in the center of the heap, in a great crater left behind by the slug when it burst from its bed to rain fire upon Thorin's company. Unlike the rest of the gold, which took on the chill of the damp subterranean air, this indent was somehow shielded. It was warm to the touch, as if the dragon had imparted some of its own heat upon it. Thorin lay down there, eased by the surrounding walls of his home, the warmth of the soft metal beneath him, and the knowledge that soon his allies would arrive to lay bloody waste to the armies of Mirkwood and Laketown.

On the third night, the itching began.

* * *

It was bright as daylight when Thorin awoke, skin burning as if with a fire worse than any rash or insect bite. It seared his flesh; the edges of agony blanking all thought from his mind save to find relief. He could not tear his heavy outer coat away fast enough, ripping away layer after layer in his haste, paying no mind to the sound of tearing cloth.

At the first glimpse of skin he gulped. Froze.

A single V of flesh was visible through the collar of his rust-red shirt and he probed at the opening with wide fingers. Pale flesh, unused to the light of day, should have appeared beneath. If he could he would have denied it then, piled his clothing back on and chalked the impossible sight up to nightmares. But the burning in his flesh was unbearable. Even as dwarf he could not endure it and with a growl he tore away his wide leather belt and, before terror could overwhelm his arms, yanked off his coat. He peered down the collar of his shirt.

Bile rose at the back of Thorin's throat, tasting of copper and acid. Were his teeth not clenched he might have screamed.

The skin of his chest had darkened and puckered, blackening like a bruise. Sores glinted in wet, speckled patches across his stomach and shoulders like pockmarks. Fear turned from paralytic to goad as he tore off his shirt and stood bare-chested, tracing his fingers over the wounds.

The marks were dry and glinted in the dark. Dwarves could see better than any race in pitch black, needing only a faint candle to see far into the deep places of the world. But never this well, not in the middle of the night. Now he saw as if it were midday, but had no time to think on this. Hypnotized, he scraped a blunt fingernail over one of the patches and the pale skin flaked away as if it were parchment.

Thorin recoiled, jerking his hand back with a strangled cry. His breath came in great heaving gasps and his heart thundered in his ears. Against all better judgment, moved by nothing but the wild terror scattering his thought, he prodded again at the same spot, gasping under his breath as a harder prod with his finger uncovered raised ridges across his biceps and shoulders. Thin lines like razor scars traced squares or…scales, across his flesh. His closer inspection revealed the black spots were surrounded by duskier skin, as if the pale flesh was only a mask over the new skin beneath.

It struck him then, shortening his breath with terror, how truly alone he was. Óin, Gandalf, anyone who could help was beyond a wall of rock. It would take him hours to escape through the hidden door and descend from the mountain. That was even if they still waited beyond the door and had not returned to Laketown. And who was to say they would help him? Could this not be some scheme of Gandalf's to flush him out, some plague designed to bring him to his knees before them, crying out for aid?

_If so, it was well thought out_, Thorin thought, biting back a hysterical laugh that was all but a cry. In a reckless move, suicidal for all he knew, he dragged his blunt nails across his forearms, feeling the world spin along with his vision as great hunks of his flesh tore away, revealing blackness beneath.

All pride fell away then and a keening sound broke from between his lips. The faint voice at the back of his mind, the boiling rage that had filled his belly since he learned the Arkenstone was held by his enemies…all of it fell away in the wildfire of terror that raced through his mind, leaving no space for greed or anger. Nausea welled in his stomach, crashing like fire inside him, while another fire still raced over his skin, crying for the scratch of his nails. The red shirt was balled in his other fist and he bit down on it as a tremor tore through him and he fell to one knee, teeth clenching around the soft fabric as he doubled over.

There was a dry, tearing sound that was nothing of fabric. Thorin froze as he felt the skin of his back _split_. Too late, too late to go to Óin or Gandalf, he would die here, a victim of his own damnable pride just as the wizard had predicted. Dáin would find only a ruined corpse under the mountain and it was fitting somehow, fitting that they should find him here amongst the gold of his forefathers. His thoughts babbled and scattered like fear-crazed children before he noticed there was no pain. The itching across his skin still burned on his stomach and arms and legs but on his back the cool air struck the exposed flesh like a balm.

Thorin opened his eyes, sweat stinging his brow and the edges of the open sores. For the moment the worst of the agony had past, or at least he had become accustomed enough to it that he dared to crawl a few feet, slow and wary against the splitting of his own flesh. His hands shook as he fumbled amongst the gold coins until he pulled forth a silver bowl, polished to a mirror shine. He held it behind his shoulder, and out of the corner of his eye could see a ridge of dark teeth rising along his spine. Nausea surged in his throat and the world spun as the vision sank in. Teeth? Or spines. His breath came out in shuddering gasps as this new revelation skittered over his mind, unable to find purchase in the chaos.

He lowered the bowl in a daze; his eyes dull and unfocused, and only then caught a glimpse of his own features. Staring eyes focused, widened. On one side, his face was as pale and clammy as that of a fever patient, the other… on the other the shadowy rot had spread up his neck and jaw, disappearing into his beard. Black flesh like scabs marked his discolored skin, speckling his forehead and cheekbones. His eyes…

Thorin threw the bowl to the ground where it rang amongst the coins, but even so he could see them there: his eyes gleaming with their own light, a muted blue that lit his graying face like that of a corpse.

The movement flexed his flaking skin and he cringed as a crack ran down his forearm. The pale flesh parted and now he could see the shape of those thin ridges that had covered him in their patterns. Scales. Gleaming obsidian black, dry and smooth as a newborn snake in the light of…the light of his eyes. For there was no doubt why the cavern seemed lit as if by a midday sun. Where the flesh split relief followed and even as he knew he must find a way to literally _save his own skin_ he gave a groan that thrummed through him, crown to toes, as the itching eased. He sank down into the gold, burying his fingers into the coins to brace himself as another groan shook him, this one starting from deeper within, and lower, as pleasure rang through his bones. The shirt dropped tfrom his hand as he sank down, careful not to break any more of the skin that covered his body like dead leaves, splitting and crumbling at the slightest touch.

Where his body met the gold the pain vanished, and the nausea eased. He continued down, lying flat upon the warm coins of the treasurey, then untied his heavy iron boots as well, wanting to feel the coins upon his bare skin.

_Barefoot. I must look like a Hobbit_. The thought rose unbidden, intrusive. This was no time for thoughts of the burglar, his thoughts babbled in their delirium; would that he had never laid eyes on that cursed race. Without Bilbo…

_We would not have made it this far._

He pushed the thought aside with annoyance. Without the hobbit his hoard would not be one gem short.

The heavy iron boots came away and he frowned at the holes in the toes of the heavy socks he wore beneath: slit across the toe, as if cut open by a knife. He cast them aside and buried his feet into the coins, rapture pouring through his veins.

That small voice, the same one that wondered how his burglar would laugh to see him barefoot, cried out for escape. Cried out that he must find Óin or Gandalf, lest the disease bring him low without a fight.

Yet the gold rose around him like an embrace, washing away the agony and dragging sleep in its wake. Peace made his limbs heavy, and even as panic cried from the corner of his mind that thought nothing of gold, it was no match.

* * *

Shape without form, shade without colour,  
Paralysed force, gesture without motion;

* * *

**Author Note:** Chapter poem is "The Hollow Man" by T.S. Eliot. Hours of work go into bringing this fic to you, and even the smallest comment can change the course of this author's day!


	3. Chapter 3

Bilbo came to on the battlefield, his head aching as if someone had beaten it repeatedly against a wall, which in all likelihood was close to the truth with all the jostling he had received. Being invisible only meant the orcs could not target him, but he had received plenty of bumping and prodding, and even a few nicks from the edge of blades as he wove and dodged past, struggling to stay near his companions. Armored as they were from Dáin's stock of infantry gear, the dwarves of the company were almost impossible to distinguish from the larger host from the Iron Hills.

It was a coincidence for the storybooks indeed. Bard and Thranduil had been so busying arguing amongst themselves for they might best dig out the entrance to Erebor and claim their share of the treasure that they almost didn't notice when Dáin and _his_ army arrived, which put a swift end to those negotiations.

Bilbo had thought Thorin would make his appearance then, for surely the arrival of Dáin's army had been the point of his little stunt of walling off Erebor. But the dwarf king, who Bilbo would have once called his friend, if not something more, something tenuous and unspoken and lost now with the Arkenstone, had never arrived. Gandalf must have noticed how Bilbo's shoulders sank as the day progressed and no familiar dark head approached, tall and proud amongst the other dwarves, to issue his counter-offer with a fresh and well-trained army at his back. In the end he never appeared, leaving three lords of three races arguing over what to do with one another and with the mountain.

That was the moment the armies of Azog arrived from Dol Guldur. What purpose brought them there, none could say, though Bilbo had his sneaking suspicion that it was Azog's enmity towards Thorin that brought them to Erebor, for what use had the orcs for treasure and jewels? Only hatred of Dwarves, Elves and Men could bring them thence, and that they had in spades.

Battle was hardly the word for it. Chaos, a mêlée of four races scrapping amongst themselves with no central command or formal battle line. Then the Eagles swooped in and the army of Dol Guldur collapsed into a rout. Perhaps all battles were thus; Bilbo was not one to know, having never seen a great battle outside of his books. Still he imagined they were usually a great deal more organized than this one, numbering only two sides rather than five.

Something thoroughly unreasonable and Tookish had prompted him beforehand to request his own set of dwarven armor and weapons from Dáin, and he too had joined battle, although he soon realized how thoroughly out of his depth he really was. On went the Ring, and he spent the rest of the fight dodging the flailing of Elves, Dwarves, Men, and Orcs while trying to stay near his companions, striking out with Sting when they were in danger. Thus he saved Fíli and Kíli from Azog after they had together slain Bolg, and he bedeviled the Pale Orc with little stings across his ankles and calves long enough for Dáin to arrive with his vanguard. For Dáin had been at Azanulbizar and would have slain Azog himself then had Thorin not intervened. Mightily the two strove against one another, or at least they had been when something struck Bilbo on the head and he knew no more of the battle, or anything else for that matter.

Bilbo rubbed at the goose egg forming above his temple and had gone quite far across the battlefield, dodging the twitching orc bodies and the sadder, broken corpses of Elves, before he realized he was still invisible! He would have snatched off the Ring then, but it occurred to him that he did not yet know for certain the outcome of fight and perhaps a bit of caution was warranted.

He was skirting along the edges of a mud-stained field tent when he heard the first familiar voice. It was Gandalf, who sound distinctly irritated, which was nothing new.

"For heaven's sake, Bard, Thranduil—yes you too. I am quite done with your childish sniping. Until we determine if Thorin is still alive, Dáin is the acting king of the dwarves."

"And what right does that give him to negotiate for the wealth of Erebor, promised to me by Thorin Oakenshield when he was a guest in my halls?" came the cool voice of the Elvenking. "Let me treat with his heir, the brown-haired one. He seemed amenable to my people."

"Kíli was never the heir: you are thinking of Fíli. A simple mistake, but a common one. I'm afraid Fíli is not available to negotiate, his wounds from the battle…"

At that moment Bilbo wrenched the Ring off his finger, and rounded the corner into the tent. "Surely nothing has happened to Fíli!"

Gandalf, Thranduil, Bard, and Dáin all sat at a rough camp table and looked up as one as Bilbo entered.

"Bilbo, my dear friend! We thought you lost in the battle," Gandalf said, and real joy brightened his face.

"Well, I'm found again, if a bit the worse for wear," Bilbo said, indicating the throbbing lump on his head. "But never mind that, what has happened to Fíli and Kíli? And what of the others?"

"All well, all well, I can assure you, though similarly bruised and battered. Fíli took quite a blow to the head himself and is far too dazed to negotiate with these cutthroats, even if he were trained for such things."

Bilbo sagged with relief before he remembered the other pressing issue. "And Thorin? Is there any word from Erebor?"

Gandalf's expression turned grave. "None, and I fear the worst. Even dwarves, hardy as they are, cannot go forever without food or water. The latter he may have, but unless Thorin is leaving by the secret door to forage then I fear for his health nearly as much as I fear for his sanity. Such treasure is enough to turn the heads of even the very wise." He gave a sour look at his three companions, as if to indicate there were far worse consequences for those he did not number among the wise. "Even normal gold may have terrible effects."

"It isn't? Normal gold, I mean," Bilbo said. Thranduil scoffed, at which Bilbo frowned with indignation.

"Long has the gold of Erebor been the nesting place of evil," Thranduil said. "And not lightly does such a curse fall from the metal without the aid of one such as Mithrandir. There are foul magics that follow in the wake of dragons, for like orcs they are beasts twisted by the enemy from the bodies and souls of other beings. Where they go, wrath and ruin follow, not only from the fire of their breath. The very ground they walk upon carries their curse: the hunger for treasures that may break the souls and bodies of lesser beings." Thranduil gave a smile then, as if to indicate how far above such things he counted himself. "One can only imagine what horrors have imbued the treasures of the dwarves, lying beneath Smaug over a century."

"Gandalf, is that true?" Bilbo said, keeping his gaze fixed on Thranduil, searching his face for mockery and deceit. Mockery there was in spades, but deceit was harder to read. Bilbo loved the Elves of Rivendell, but perhaps some of the dwarven bias had infected him in Mirkwood. His distrust of the Elvenking began the minute he imprisoned the dwarves in his halls, and it only grew as he saw the way Thranduil goaded Thorin when he was at his mercy.

"I have suspected as much," Gandalf said. "Which is why I forbade Thorin to enter the mountain without me."

"There was hardly any choice: Durin's Day was here and you were not," Bilbo pointed out, feeling compelled to defend Thorin's decision even when he too had protested it at the time. A creeping anxiety was born in him at the Elvenking's words, and he cast worried glances up at the mountain, as if he might be granted some special sight to pierce the miles of stone and see Thorin within.

"Often does necessity make mockery of our plans. Still, once the door was open, there was no need to go inside immediately. You could have opened the door and waited on the step, or taken turns camping just inside the entrance until I arrived," Gandalf said, and Bilbo frowned, nose twitching, for he had no answer to that. It had all seemed so urgent at the time, with Thorin driving them on, that the thought had simply not occurred. "It matters not. What matters is that we have a city in ruins and three armies still outside the gate of Erebor who will not be sated without their share or at least some promise of future payment. And we have no way of getting in with any kind of large force." Gandalf's eyes gleamed. "Which may be where you come in, my dear Bilbo."

"Oh no, my burgling days are over, I'll not go in there to bring you back treasure, not a single coin! Thorin was right, you lot have no proper claim to it and I'm ashamed at how you all behaved over the Arkenstone, especially you two!" Bilbo cried, pointing at Thranduil and Bard, the former of whom looked affronted if a bit confused, as if he had been attacked by a particularly vicious squirrel.

"This is not a question of treasure or blame, Bilbo Baggins," Gandalf said, cutting Bilbo's tirade short. "They have agreed that their share of the treasure must wait until we have determined who exactly rules under the mountain, at least they will even if I have to bang their heads together a few more times." Gandalf said with an added glare at the assembled lords. "No," he continued, his voice softening, "this is a selfless errand, if far more perilous."

"Sounds familiar," said Bilbo dryly.

Gandalf ignored this. "Someone must enter Erebor and find Thorin. You are the only one I can trust not to fall under the sway of the gold."

Bilbo's heart leapt. In truth he had considered doing something similar, perhaps leaving a bushel of apples outside the door in an attempt to lure Thorin out like a cat with a piece of fish, but just as he had considered it himself he had also considered the impossibility of it, and his heart sank to somewhere near his fur-covered feet. "Gandalf, I very much doubt Thorin is going to want anything to do with me after…after the Arkenstone debacle."

"Indeed, that is an issue that still needs some resolution. As it was your share of the treasure, I believe you should have some say in the matter. What do you suggest, Bilbo?" Gandalf said.

Bilbo pondered this, his heart heavy with the memory of the theft. Even if he still thought his reasons were right he could not forget the look of pain and betrayal on Thorin's face when the Arkenstone was revealed in the hands of his enemies. "It belongs to the dwarves. Give it to Fíli and Kíli, or Dáin if you must, for safekeeping. Then it must be returned to Thorin. After all, it belongs to his family and I was only borrowing it," he said finally. A cry of protest went up immediately from Bard and Thranduil while Dáin leaned back, looking satisfied.

"Oh, hush you two," Gandalf snapped. "You never would have been permitted to keep it anyway. Master Baggins is right. The dwarves would have gathered to make war on you before year was out. It is a legacy of their people, not a pretty bauble to stick in a tiara." He turned back to Bilbo. "With any luck this news will bring Thorin back to his senses and we can put this whole unpleasant business behind us. The Master of Laketown tells me Thorin offered to share the wealth before you departed, we shall simply have to make him own up to that promise, but none of that will happen while he has walled up with the Arkenstone beyond his grasp."

Bilbo considered, remembering the terror of that long drop, his teeth rattling as Thorin shook him. But then he remembered too their embrace high above on the Carrock, their whispered words far below in the dungeons of Thranduil, and the bliss on Thorin's face as the door to Erebor cracked open. There was more to his friend than the madness that consumed him.

"He is in there somewhere," Gandalf said, and Bilbo started, wondering if Gandalf had divined his thoughts. "My guess is the treasury, but he could be anywhere, for Erebor is vast."

Bilbo chewed his lip then nodded. "I will do it."

"I thought you might," Gandalf murmured. "Though I must say your courage has increased manifold since I found you in the Shire, my dear friend."

Bilbo shook his head. "Nothing of courage in it. Thorin is…well, he's many things, but he is also my friend, after a fashion, and no hobbit can leave a friend to starve to death. I'll get ready; there's isn't much time to waste," he said, turning. He thought to wash first, and have his wounds dressed, before loading up with as much food as he could carry, perhaps a pony to carry it to the hidden stair. He had just headed to the door of the tent when Gandalf caught him by the shoulder and leaned down.

"Bilbo, you will need to be careful," Gandalf said, putting his mouth to Bilbo's ear. "Thranduil is right: not all may be well with Thorin's mind."

"Really Gandalf, I think I can handle one starving dwarf. After all, I handled thirteen of them in Mirkwood. I imagine nothing Thorin can dish out will compare to that unpleasantness; he worst should be behind us now."

He would later realize just how badly he needed to stop saying things like that.

* * *

There was really no time to linger, but still Bilbo visited the field infirmary while arrangements were made for his pack and pony. He thought to check in on Fíli and was pleased, though not surprised, to see Kíli there as well. The red-haired elven maiden he vaguely recalled from the dungeons of Mirkwood hovered behind the young dwarf like a shadow as he hunched over his brother's cot. Fíli's head was swathed in bandages, but the two seemed to be in good spirits, laughing over some joke Bilbo had missed when Fíli looked up and waved to the hobbit.

"Bilbo! We had just about given you up!" Fíli said. Kíli turned and with a startled laugh wrapped one hand around Bilbo's shoulders and dragged him to the side of the bed.

"Well if it isn't our burglar, returned to the land of the living!" said Kíli.

"Never left it, I'm pleased to say," Bilbo said. "Though I hear Fíli here was a near thing. I'm sorry I could not do more but, well…" He pointed to the lump on his head, wrapped now in clean linens.

"There's no need. There's no telling what might have happened without you and your letter opener," Fíli said.

"Has there been any word of Uncle?" Kíli piped in. At that, the room went quiet and the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. Bilbo shifted.

"None. I'm off to…that is, Gandalf suggested that I be the one who goes looking for him," Bilbo said.

"But that's a wonderful idea!" Kíli said. "Uncle trusts you."

Bilbo stiffened. Of course, the brothers had not been there, had not been close enough to see Thorin's fingers digging into his shoulders as he called Bilbo a descendent of rats and threatened to cast him down to the rocks. "Indeed. Well, Gandalf has managed to convince Bard to surrender the Arkenstone into your keeping. It should be along shortly. I'm hoping this news will cheer him." The name Thorin still stuck at the back of his throat.

"And what about us?" said Fíli. Kíli looked at his brother and back.

"But of course we'll be going too, right?" said Kíli to Bilbo, who shifted again. A moment to exchange a few pleasant words to an injured comrade before he departed was growing far more complicated than he had anticipated.

"Gandalf made no mention of you; I'm sure he has his reasons. Oh! You must stay with your brother, Kíli," Bilbo said, unconsciously wringing his hands together. He clamped them beneath his arms to keep them still. Fíli arched an eyebrow.

"If Thorin is being unreasonable, wouldn't it make more sense to send us?" said Fíli. Kíli snorted.

"He's never listened to us. At least, not me. Mr. Baggins has a far better chance if Uncle is being difficult."

"Oh, but here's a thought," Bilbo exclaimed, as guilt got the better of him. "Once you're recovered, you're welcome to come join me, if Gandalf approves. After all, if I'm not back by then I'll likely be needing your help anyway."

Fíli did not seem convinced. "What exactly is the problem, Bilbo?"

"Oh, you know your uncle, he's just upset about Thranduil being here. Decided to keep the mountain closed off until it's all settled." Fíli opened his mouth to protest when a gray head in a pointed hat appeared, poking through the tent flap.

"Time to go, Bilbo," Gandalf announced.

Bilbo turned back to the brothers. "I must be off. Goodbye, Fíli, Kíli, my lady," he added, bowing to the elf maiden. "I will be back by the end of the week, you will see. Farewell!"

The dwarf brothers chimed back their farewells and Bilbo ducked out after Gandalf. The wizard stood by a fuzzy dun pony laden with two heavy packs. It snorted at the sight of him, breath misting in the air.

"I will travel with you as far as the secret door, but I'm afraid I must turn back there," Gandalf said.

"So you will not be coming with me to see him?" Bilbo said anxiously.

"Would that I could, Bilbo, for I have an ill feeling about Thorin's silence. But I cannot leave three armies for one dwarf. Thranduil and Dáin are at each other's throats, and I still do not know for sure which side Bard would take if they should come to blows. I must tell you I will be happy to be done with the whole Line of Durin and of Oropher for a few centuries once this is over," he muttered the last under his breath. "Nonetheless, I can keep you company on the road and help you with your packs until then."

"Well, thank you for that at least," Bilbo said, trying to hide his disappointment, and more his sudden trepidation. Alone in the mountain with Thorin, with the bruises of the dwarf's handprints still ripening on Bilbo's shoulder… He had faced great spiders, a dragon, and more monsters than he wished to count but none quite matched this new terror, that of seeing a friend's face twisted by anger beyond recognition. He released a shuddering sigh, letting it take the with it the edge off his of nerves.

"Shall we go?"

* * *

Those who have crossed  
With direct eyes, to death's other Kingdom

* * *

**Author Note: **Thank you again for reading! Do please leave any thoughts you might on the story so far in a review, it would mean so much to me after the hours that went into this. As ever, the chapter poem is a continuation of T.S. Eliot's "The Hollow Man".


	4. Chapter 4

Thorin came awake seizing, his breath choked off, unable to breathe. With a strangled wheeze he sat upright, clutching his throat. Sharp points pricked the skin of his neck as he convulsed, struggling desperately to swallow past the blockage. The back of his throat tasted of bile and something harsher as well, sulfur or charcoal, and he _could not breathe_.

Thorin convulsed, falling to his knees and planting one hand on the gold as he hacked and coughed. Wet droplets trickled down the side of his neck from beneath his hand and a chill sweat gathered on his brow as he heaved. The world darkened at the edges; panic blanked all other thought as his lungs burned for air.

The blockage shifted and loosened in his chest and he would have cried out if he had air to do so. He spat blood from where he had bit the inside of his cheek in his seizures, then something black that gave off a chemical reek and splattered in gobbets on the treasure beneath him.

Air hit the back of his throat and he inhaled sharply, sucking it down, and with it sweet relief. Breathing it out and with it—

_Fire._

Belching forth from his throat, it shot in plumes across the gold, flashing white across his vision. Blinded he stared, frozen, as his vision blackened and spotted in the afterimage. Flames curled and billowed, racing along the treasure, the soft gold beading to liquid across the surface of the hoard. He could feel each coin as it lost its shape and pooled into a misshapen lump.

Thorin clamped a hand over his mouth and felt skin like toughened leather where his lips would have been. Lower, his hand slipping down unbidden, he found hardened scales like chips of obsidian where the soft flesh of his throat had once been. His hand fell limp to his side and then he was moving, scrabbling through the pinging, clanging coins to find the polished silver bowl. Black scales covered the muscles of his arm in strips, the white flesh curling at the edges where it flaked and peeled away. His hand closed around the bowl and he heard the squeak and squeal of metal.

Wide, strong fingers, used to wielding a blacksmith's hammer or a sword, now ended in sharp black talons. The points glinted, their lengths wickedly curved, sharp as scimitars, and screeched as they bit into the silver . He distantly remembered what must of have been talons digging into his skin as he clutched at his throat. Thorin looked about wildly, and saw too that his toenails matched their brethren.

And in the mirror surface of the bowl…black scales cutting across his face in a jagged scar, stretching from jaw to cheekbone. Eyes that glowed with a baleful inner light now had slit pupils like a cat's. Dragon scale and fire was devouring him from the inside out, tearing at his flesh and twisting him, bone and sinew. Thorin's breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as it all came crashing down upon him and a wild noise, part scream and part groan, built at the back of his throat and was set loose, reverberating through the caverns of Erebor.

* * *

"Here is where I must leave you, Bilbo," Gandalf said, as they stood before the hidden door into Erebor.

Bilbo sighed, though he had known this moment would come. All was dark beyond the stone doorway, and it somehow felt colder, less welcoming even than when they had first found it. For then he had his companions waiting for him while he traveled through the tunnels, and now he must go alone to face whatever monsters lay on the other side.

_Not monsters_, he reminded himself, _just Thorin. _Which, truth be told, seemed just as fearsome considering their last parting. He squared his shoulders, for if he did not go now he feared his nerve would fail him entirely.

"I should think you will be needing these too," Gandalf said dryly, passing the heavy packs to Bilbo. The wizard had at least had the courtesy to help Bilbo bring the supplies up the hidden staircase, no easy feat for one so much taller than was meant for such a narrow stairway. Bilbo _oof_ed as he accepted. "Will you be quite able to manage?"

"So as long as this is a fortnight's worth of food I believe I shall," Bilbo said with a laugh. "Certainly it's more than we've had at many points in the journey, and that will make the burden seem lighter."

"With any luck, you will not need it," Gandalf said. "But just to be safe. There should be enough even for three weeks, if you are careful and eat like Men rather than Hobbits. There are also some medicines in there, warm clothing, bandages and herbs should Thorin's absence be due to illness or injury. Óin has included some instructions of his own for the more common dwarven ailments, and some vials of his ointment, so be careful not to drop it."

"I will," said Bilbo, shouldering the second pack.

"Well, I must be off, there is no telling what those rascals will get up to with me gone," said Gandalf.

"You do speak of great lords of the Elves and Dwarves," said Bilbo dryly.

"Yes, funny about that," Gandalf said. He stopped just before reaching the staircase, turning his head back a little. "Bilbo, be careful while you are down there. There is no shame in escaping if ought goes wrong. We cannot save everyone, even those who are very dear to us, and there are some illnesses for which there is no cure."

Bilbo opened his mouth to reply when the thought of it finally struck him. Of Thorin in the dark and tomb-like halls of his ancestors, alone. Sick, perhaps, or too injured to move and for the first time since the wall some of the fear fell away to make room for memory, of gentler words and hands that touched in friendship instead of rage. Something seized in his throat then, and he could only nod silently. He hefted his pack and faced the door, dark and unwelcoming as ever, but now only a barrier that must be surmounted. With a little nod to himself he set off, down the winding tunnel and into the heart of the mountain.

Tiny light wells drilled into the ceiling provided pinpricks of illumination along the way, once his eyes had adjusted to the gloom. He had just about settled into a comfortable pace, shifting the packs around when they grew heavy, his confidence growing with each step, when he heard it.

A groan that rose to a scream, rising with the subterranean winds, its tones overlaid with some monstrous echo. A chill of horror ran through him, draining the blood from his face, and he would have dropped the packs and bolted then had not the far more horrifying thought occurred to him.

The sound had come from Thorin.

The only alternative was that some other creature had made the caverns their abode side by side with Smaug, somehow passing unknown to the great worm. Unlikely, as Smaug had not seemed one to share his home. A sound like a wounded animal, he now realized, as the gooseflesh that prickled his arms at the clamor eased and he found himself running towards it, rather than away. What if this had been one of many screams, growing more ragged with each day as Thorin cried out, broken and alone, calling for aid that never came…? Bilbo redoubled his speed.

It may have been a short distance were it straight, but the path wound snakelike through the mountain, and Bilbo was out of breath when he came to the wide stone platforms that overlooked the treasury. There he skidded to a halt, surveying the glittering hoard beneath.

"Thorin," he squeaked then coughed, clearing his throat, and shouted again, "Thorin!"

There was no response, and the high ceilings with their cathedral-like arches swallowed all sound from the air. Placing the extra pack of food down, Bilbo selected the one that held the first week's food and medicine, racing down the steps and across the golden dunes.

* * *

Terror made Thorin's breath come short and fast, the world spinning around him, and once again he was on all fours amongst the gold, struggling to catch his breath. It felt better there, closer to the ground; the dizziness overcame him again when he tried to stand like a dwarf. The gold was like satin beneath his fingers, soothing his mind of cares. All was not lost. He had the treasure of Erebor, the halls were his. All would be well, all would be well, the gold sang to him.

_…with fingers that now end in talons, skin that splits and shreds with each movement, walking on all fours as a beast…_

There was a sound. Thorin's head jerked up and all frantic and tumbling thoughts stilled. A deadly calm fell upon him.

Silent as a shadow and swift as death, he climbed free of the bed of gold, surveying the hoard. There was a scent on the air, a familiar one though he could not place it. No matter, he would be ready for the intruder. Limbs would crack and blood would flow, he would cut them down and devour them as sheep for daring to enter his halls. He dodged pillars that lay scatted like fallen trees over the gold and slipped into their shadow.

He could hear the thief long before he saw him, though his footsteps were as light upon the coins as the rustle of leaves over stone. The thief called out a word, but he could not hear it over the pounding of rage in his blood. Heat gathered in his throat and his talons clenched. A figure stepped in front of his hiding place.

The thief squawked as he fell upon it and they tumbled together back onto gold, the metal clanging and clattering as they rolled end over end. He snarled in frustration as his talons, strong and sharp as swords, dug into what should be soft and yielding flesh only to be stopped, turned away by something tougher and harder. The ground gave way beneath them and they slid further, picking up speed. Coins jangled and clashed around them, a whirlwind of gold.

They stopped with a sickening thump. The back of his head struck unyielding stone, and stars exploded across his vision. The thief landed atop him with a groan.

When his vision cleared, Thorin blinked as he came back to himself. He looked up. Horror swept him.

"Bilbo?" Thorin breathed

"Ah… aaaah…" Bilbo panted above him, his face white. A gurgling sound came from the back of his throat. "Aaaaah…?"

"What are _you_ doing here?" Thorin snarled, grabbing at the hobbit's arm, but Bilbo leapt, tumbled backwards, kicking himself away and landing hard.

Bilbo raised a shaking hand from where he lay on his back, pointing at Thorin. "_Ah_?"

Thorin looked down. Like charred paper, the white of his flesh had peeled away at the edges to reveal black scales. Yet where only the day before the scales had been only speckled patches, now they covered his chest, his arms and throat in wide strips. The baleful glow of his eyes reflected in them, two points of unearthly blue light. What flesh had not fallen away was dusky gray, stretched taut over scales waiting to break free. He touched the back of his neck, feeling the hard ridge that covered his spine and trailed down his back. He swallowed, hard.

Thorin looked back at Bilbo. The hobbit was pale and shaking, eyes wide and liquid while his mouth and throat worked, but no sound came out. Silently screaming. At Thorin. Flesh crumbling to dust around him, acid in his stomach, Thorin saw himself in Bilbo's eyes with more clarity than he had in the silver bowl, and saw a monster staring back. A single thought pierced a mind clouded in a haze of gold and fire.

"Bilbo," Thorin said, his voice trembled and he reached out one hand in entreaty. Bilbo flinched back. "_Help me_."

Thorin could not say what he would have done had it been otherwise, but at that moment a change came over Bilbo. His trembling ceased and his lips drew to a thin line. His nose gave a twitch. Then he nodded to himself and sat up.

"Right. Well, give me a moment and I'll put the kettle on."

* * *

Remember us—if at all—not as lost  
Violent souls, but only  
As the hollow men  
The stuffed men.

* * *

**Author Note: **Thank you for reading so far! Next update in 3 days at 4pm EST. If you're enjoying the story, please take a moment to leave a comment. A lot of time and effort goes into writing and editing this story, and your thoughts are only repayment asked :)


	5. Chapter 5

Within an hour Bilbo had gathered enough pieces of broken furniture to start a small fire and prop the copper kettle from the pack atop the coals, filled with water from one of the skins. It really was abysmally dark down there, perhaps not so for a dwarf, but Bilbo's eyes were having difficulty adjusting. The cheerful little fire was a relief even if it meant he lost what little night vision he had gained.

Thorin was settled just beyond the immediate reach of the firelight, his eyes two glowing points in the darkness. Bilbo had found him a cloak from amongst the packs, a lovely thing of dark blue with a silver tassel, and Thorin now wore it with the hood pulled up, concealing the horrid black scars that covered his face and body.

Once ready, Bilbo poured the tea into a pair of tin travel cups and passed one to Thorin, who accepted it without a word. As his hands emerged from the long sleeves of the cloak, one meant for Men and so too long even for so tall a dwarf as Thorin, Bilbo caught a glimpse of curved black talons at the end of Thorin's fingers and gulped silently, hiding his reaction under the guise of blowing on his tea. The water had just finished boiling and was far too hot to drink. Thorin brought the cup to his lips.

"Oh, Thorin!" Bilbo exclaimed, putting out a hand to stop the dwarf.

Thorin downed the scalding liquid in one long swallow before looking up. "What is it?"

Bilbo lowered his hand, his mouth agape. Thorin watched him from beneath his hood, one black eyebrow raised. Bilbo shook his head and subsided. "Nothing, it's nothing. Just…I thought it a bit too hot to drink, didn't you?"

Thorin inspected the bottom of the cup. "Not particularly." A strange expression crossed his face and he set the cup aside.

Bilbo's fingers drummed against his own steaming cup. Thorin shifted his position, sitting with one knee drawn to his chest, his arm draped flat across it while his other hand lay on his knee. Black scales trailed up his hand and disappeared into the sleeves and Bilbo cast his gaze about trying to find something, anything, to look at besides the claws glinting in the firelight. Thorin must have caught read his movement because he folded in on himself then, drawing his hands out of sight under the cloak.

Bilbo cleared his throat. "So, are we going to talk about this?" he said.

"This?" Thorin echoed coldly.

"This," Bilbo said and made a circular gesture towards Thorin. "All of _this_."

Thorin looked away, his face falling into shadow under the blue hood. He must have closed his eyes too, for the faint glow winked out.

"No, I didn't mean…!" Bilbo stopped. His voice softened. "Thorin, how did this happen?"

The silence stretched long before Thorin spoke again. "I do not know. I awoke like this."

"What, all at once?" Bilbo said.

Thorin must have opened his eyes, for the lights returned and from the tone of his voice he was rolling them at Bilbo at the moment. "No. There were early signs. Marks on the skin, as if this new flesh was growing beneath my own. The gold… I must have fallen asleep on the gold, and when I woke it had spread." His voice lowered to a growl, but weighed down more by shame than anger. "I don't know what to do."

"Why didn't you come to us for help?" Bilbo said softly.

Thorin stilled, then looked down at his hands, the scales glinted in the firelight. "How could I?"

Silence fell between them again, the only sound the crackle of the fire and the rustle of cloth as Thorin pulled himself deeper into the folds of the cloak, vanishing but for glimpse of gray flesh at his throat, shadowed by his hood.

"You know," Bilbo said, clearing his throat before he continued. His voice was strangely hoarse, and there was a weight in his chest as if someone had hung a stone where his heart should be. "I don't think they would resent you, the company that is, if you asked for help." He poked at the fire with one of the spare sticks. "They would have forgiven you."

"And who is to say that I have forgiven them?" Thorin said, his voice grave while uttering words that would have been childish in another, but from him held the dreadful grimness of an oath. "Or that I should seek their aid who have stolen from me and betrayed me?"

The fire sparked at Bilbo's prodding, along with the flickers of his own anger. "They didn't steal the Arkenstone, Thorin," Bilbo said, and the flames bathed his face in red light as he looked up to face Thorin. "I did. In case you have forgotten."

"Never," Thorin said, his voice low and taking on the edge of flint on steel. "Not if I should live a thousand years."

"Good. For a moment I thought I must fear for your mind as well as your skin," Bilbo said, and turned back to the fire. "There was no need to drag them into this."

"They took the side of thieves against their king. If they wanted my goodwill, they should have done more to keep it," Thorin snapped.

Bilbo jabbed the fire, hard, and sparks showered into the air, dropping embers upon them like fireworks. Bilbo jumped, and as he did he saw that he gripped the makeshift poker like a sword. Thorin had looked up at the sparks but did not move to avoid them. The blue light gleamed in his eyes. Bilbo's heart thundered in his chest, and he opened his mouth to apologize before the reason caught up to him.

Why, his blood was as hot as the fire itself! And he realized he was angry, yes, _very_ angry at the nerve of the dwarf before him and quite prepared to tell him so.

"Oh, that's nice. Very nice indeed. They follow you across fire and water when none of your other kin would come, get chased, beaten, and oh yes, nearly eaten_, twice_, to help you regain your homeland and this is how you repay them? Toss them out the door because they dared to speak their minds? Well do you know what, Thorin Oakenshield?"

At some point Bilbo had leapt to his feet and now he stood holding the poker pointed at Thorin and staring down it along the length of his arm. Blue light glinted beneath the hood but Thorin only watched him, saying nothing. Bilbo deflated, the tip of the stick bouncing on the stone floor as he lowered it. He raked his fingers through his hair, catching and holding it as he stared blankly forward and the enormity of it all crashed down around him. "I…I just thought better of you, Thorin. I really did. I'm sorry I was wrong."

Bilbo tossed the stick aside and turned, staring back the way he had come up the tunnel while his breathing eased from its frantic rush and his chest loosened. Then his shoulders drooped further, this time in despair. He could not very well go back the way he had come, not with Thorin like this, but the memory of the wall was rising like a pair of hands clasped around his throat and he wondered at how foolish he had been, denying Fíli and Kíli's help, letting Gandalf leave.

What good was he at reasoning with Thorin? Bilbo didn't even know him, not anymore, and what was worse, felt just as much to blame that it had come to this. Stealing the Arkenstone had been the right thing to do, he still believed that, had to, but oh, that gulf between them seemed insurmountable now and how was he ever supposed to reach across it with all this lying between them? How had he even thought to try?

"Why did you do it, burglar?" Thorin's voice was so heavy, so replete with weariness that Bilbo found himself turning before he could even begin to think better of it, as unable to stop himself as he would have been had Thorin cried out in pain.

Thorin watched him, eyes half-lidded as he looked down. Exhausted. The black streak of scale on his left cheek seemed only a shadow that had fallen across his face and there was something there, something _familiar_, as if the last of the beast that attacked Bilbo in these halls had fallen away and Thorin was, if not completely himself, then at least closer to the person Bilbo remembered from before than he had been in some time. Poor fool that he was, Bilbo knew he could not have resisted that question if he tried and all pride and outrage drained from him. He sighed and sat back down, propping his cheeks in his hands as he stared into the depths of the fire.

"It is a very pretty gem, isn't it? I'd be lying if I said that played no part," Bilbo began. Thorin settled back, listening, and Bilbo's voice fell into the even cadence of their many evenings by the fire, as if he related no more than the passing weather and not whys and wherefores of a betrayal that nearly had Thorin cast him to the rocks. "Mostly I was afraid, I think. We were low on food," Thorin snorted derisively at this; Bilbo chose to ignore it, "and Bard had a point, even if I could not agree with his methods. All those poor people in Laketown… Smaug only attacked them because of us, and if a bit of the gold would help, it seemed wrong to keep it from them. It wasn't mine to give, I know— well, except that it was, my share at least. But you hardly seemed ready to let them into the mountain to retrieve it. A couple tons of treasure… it's hardly portable, you know. Come to think of it, I'm not sure how I was expected to get any of it home without drawing every brigand for a thousand leagues."

Thorin gave him a measured, impatient look. Bilbo cleared his throat and hurried on. "I knew it was important to you, but there didn't seem to be any other way. And I—I feared for you, Thorin. The way you looked at me when you asked after it was unsettling, to say the least and I, uh, I'm not sure I was entirely wrong." Bilbo lifted his chin. "In fact I know I wasn't. Maybe there was a better way, but we'll never know for certain and at least all of you are alive. If being banished from the mountain is the worst I suffer, well, then so be it, but I can't think of a better use for my share."

"_A pretty gem_," Thorin remarked, his voice taking on an edge. "You have no idea of its worth. You other races never do, thinking only that us dwarves are driven mad by gold and greed." Bilbo raised an eyebrow and could not help but make a gesture that took in Thorin's current state, then point to treasure that surrounded them.

Thorin snarled and rose to his feet. Bilbo fell back, and he was ashamed to think of it, but his hand strayed to the hilt of Sting as Thorin loomed above him. "The Arkenstone grants its wielder the powers of kingship, among those the right to summon the armies of the dwarves. The very armies I had sent for the day before I learned it had been _stolen_."

"Am I supposed to believe your kin need a _gem_ as an excuse to come help you?" Bilbo interrupted, glaring up at Thorin.

"I gave Dáin assurances that the Arkenstone was in my possession when I sent for him, asking for his aid against the armies of Bard and Thranduil," Thorin retorted, ignoring Bilbo's question. "Little did I know it had been _stolen_ by the very burglar I hired to retrieve it."

"Then I am all the more glad I stole it!" Bilbo said. "I don't want Dáin fighting Thranduil and Bard anymore than I wanted _you_ fighting them!"

"Do you understand _nothing_ of politics?" Thorin growled. "When Dáin arrives he will learn that I have lied to him and I will stand foresworn before my kin. Worse, as the leader of the company, I will be responsible for the Arkenstone falling into the hands of the very enemies I summoned them to fight!"

"But what does any of this _matter_, Thorin, when the fighting is already over!" Bilbo shouted. This time it was Thorin's turn to recoil, his eyes snapping wide at Bilbo's words.

"Over? It will be days more before Dáin arrives from the Iron Hills. How can it be _over_?" Thorin said.

This drew Bilbo up short and his breath left him in a rush as he stared at Thorin, remembering the dwarf's earlier words of how long he'd slept. "Thorin," he said cautiously, "do you have any idea how long you've been down here?"

"Three days, no more," Thorin said, but the rage that had leant him size and might was draining from him, and his voice was tight with worry as he looked to Bilbo for confirmation.

Bilbo's eyebrows rose and he puffed out his cheeks as he exhaled. "Oh...oh dear." He looked back up to Thorin, at the black scales climbing his cheek and his blue eyes burning from within the hood. "Oh dear, oh dear… Thorin, you may want to sit down for this one. I'm not even sure where to begin."

"Dáin… is already here?" Thorin said. The anger drained from Thorin entirely then, and Bilbo would have been heartened at this if he did not suspect it could easily return if he was not very, very careful with what he said next.

"Here? Yes you could say that, he has been for almost a week," Bilbo said. At this Thorin did sit down, and put out a hand to steady himself on an ornamental vase that lay upended upon the gold. "We were wondering when you'd come out and uh, would have sent someone to look for you sooner if not for the battle."

"There was a battle?" Thorin said, and it seemed the healthy skin of his face had gone even paler than the gray, diseased flesh.

"Yes," Bilbo said, and began unconsciously wringing his hands. "A terrible one. When Dáin arrived we all feared he and Thranduil would come to blows, everyone was squabbling over how they would get into the mountain. To be honest, with the door collapsed I'm not sure anyone knew what they were doing there anymore. Well, then Azog arrived with an entire army, if you can believe it. Who knows for certain why they came to Erebor, probably to get at you. Of course, Bard, Thranduil, and Dáin had no choice but to take up arms together to fight off the orcs. Then the Eagles appeared, oh and _Beorn_. I have no idea where _he_ came from." As he spoke, Thorin's face shifted through an array of emotions starting at shock and moving on to horror and then bewilderment, before he seemed to give up entirely on trying to understand and just stared wide-eyed at the floor. "They're already calling it the Battle of the Five Armies and such a mess I've never seen in my life. Nearly didn't survive it myself, when Azog found Fíli and Kíli…"

Thorin sucked in a breath, his face expression twisting and growing, if possible, even more sickened.

"They're fine!" Bilbo exclaimed when he caught sight of it. "Goodness, you think I wouldn't tell you straightaways if any harm had come to them? I spoke to them in the infirmary before I left. They're a bit the worse for wear— Fíli took a nasty blow to the head— but I've been assured they will recover quickly. Fortunately, they come from a line of hard skulls." He offered a faint grin at the last but Thorin appeared to take no notice.

"What else?" Thorin said. He gave Bilbo a look that could pierce stone. "Tell me everything. What was the outcome?"

"Oh, well," Bilbo stuttered, taken aback to be pinned thus. "The orcs were defeated, obviously, or I wouldn't be here. I'm afraid I missed how it was accomplished, took a blow to the head myself while I was trying to keep Azog away from Fíli and Kíli. Luckily Dáin showed up just before then and killed him, I think. By the time I came to it was all over. There were," Bilbo gave a shuddering breath, "many deaths. Not just Orcs but Elves and Men and Dwarves. No one from the company, but it was… hard… to see so many strewn about."

Bilbo gulped and realized with horror that he was choking back tears. His first sight of the battlefield had been like a dream, and had not penetrated the daze brought on by his head wound and general bewilderment. Now, with a little distance and clearer mind, he gagged at the force of the memory, of the piles of dead, their forms twisted in agony, their bodies…not entirely intact. He quickly blotted the image of their broken forms from his mind, of the things that had come spilling out, else indeed he would be sick.

"H-hard to believe it was only this morning," Bilbo continued with a weak laugh, realizing he had been staring at the fire and feeling very cold despite it.

"This morning?" Thorin echoed. His expression had changed as Bilbo spoke, losing some of its severity. He no longer watched Bilbo as if challenging him, but rather with something closer to concern. "You were wounded, yet did not take any time to rest before coming here?"

"Oh, one of Dáin's folk patched me up well enough. It was only a little bump. The worst of it was lying on the battlefield all night, terribly uncomfortable that was. If I never smell orc blood again it will be too soon," Bilbo said with a dismissive wave, relieved to have moved on to safer topics. "Actually, I was glad to have something to do. There's not much use for a hobbit on a battlefield, before, during or after. I suppose I could have helped with the wounded, but quite frankly it's a dreadful business and most likely I would have only been in the way. With the Arkenstone was squared away, there would not have been anything left to do but wait and worry about you, and from the look of it we would have been waiting quite a some time."

Thorin frowned, shaking his head as if driving away a bothersome fly. "You're doing it again," he said irritiably.

"I beg your pardon, doing what?" Bilbo said, startled.

"You speak of great deeds as if they are of little account, then go on about your own unworthiness even as you fling yourself into dangers even the bravest would not dare, you impossible, infuriating… burglar!" Thorin said. His eyes seemed clearer as he spoke, the blue glow dimmed, though he still looked as if he could chew through rocks in his annoyance.

"Well!" Bilbo said. "I suppose I learned from the best in that regard, Master Oakenshield. If I fling myself into danger it is only because a certain leader of our company did so at the slightest provocation, and seemed to expect nothing less of those who followed him. Goodness knows you never commented on my deeds before, why should I expect them to be of any import now?"

"And why should _my_ comment have ever mattered? Your deeds will be the subject of dwarven song for an Age, to say so aloud would be to repeat the obvious," Thorin growled, but looked away as his own words seemed to catch up with him, and along with it the first tinge of shame in the downward flicker of his eyes.

"It still would have been nice to hear from time to time," Bilbo said softly. "To have done anything that impressed the mighty Thorin Oakenshield, why, that would have been a feather in my cap and no mistake. They'd never believe it, back home."

Thorin studied Bilbo, searching for some sign of mockery, then shifted and turned away. There was agitation in the set of his frame, some restless energy, and he cast several glances back at Bilbo, his mouth working as if preparing a response. Only then did it occurred to Bilbo what he had neglected to mention, why it was the very purpose of his errand!

"Oh, but you likely don't care about any of that!" Bilbo exclaimed. "But you should be pleased to hear that the Arkenstone has been retrieved and returned to dwarven hands, even if Thranduil did try to kick up a fuss over it."

"The Arkenstone?" Thorin said, and if Bilbo didn't know any better he'd think from Thorin's tone he'd forgotten it entirely, which was of course impossible. "How was this accomplished?"

"It was mostly Gandalf, I must admit, goodness knows I couldn't convince those three to put themselves out if they were on fire. But I did suggest that it be returned to Fíli in your absence, what with him being your heir and us, ah, not knowing when or if you'd be back. I knew it belonged to your father and grandfather after all, even if I did not know its full importance at that time, maybe because _someone_ never bothered to tell me. It seemed too important an heirloom to have bartered about like an old sofa, and really what use would Bard have had for it? He certainly could not have traded it for food and he is the only one who can be called even slightly deserving, as far as I'm concerned. And... Thorin?" The dwarf did not appear to be paying attention.

"I should have been there," Thorin muttered. "For all of it, the negotiations, the battle, Fíli and Kíli. I should have been fighting with them on the front lines, not lying in some stupor—!" He dashed his hands over the gold, sending coins dancing and pinging into the dark.

"Well, I for one am glad you weren't there," Bilbo retorted. "In the state you were in you would have made some suicidal charge, probably at the Elves instead of the Orcs, and gotten us all killed." He sighed. "Please just…come out of here, and let us help you. Then I'll be on my way and you need not see me again."

Thorin regarded him silently and when he finally spoke he tilted his head up but would not meet Bilbo's eyes. "Why did you come here, burglar?"

Bilbo blinked. "I—I should think that would be obvious? We were worried about you. But I suppose you mean after the…unpleasantness, on the wall." He huffed a sigh, but felt his insides clench uncomfortably even at the memory of all that dizzying space yawning beneath him. "Because there was no one else. Because you might have been hurt, or sick, or starving alone down here. Because… because in the end I know I wronged you, and thought to make up for it at least in part. I'd rather we parted in kindness, Thorin, though I know some things cannot be forgiven."

"Enough," Thorin paused at Bilbo's flinch, and held up a mollifying hand, his manner softening. "You shame me with your words, Master Baggins. For all the ill that has come between us I… realize I have wronged you. I cannot say I am not angry with you still, likely I will be for many years hence. This anger it… is like a living thing inside of me, like nothing I have ever known." Thorin frowned to himself, as if troubled by his own words. "But know that as much as I can, I forgive you for any wrong you may have brought myself or my house, and can only hope that one day you might find it in yourself to forgive me in turn."

Bilbo blinked, unsure of what he was hearing. But Thorin did indeed look properly ashamed, hunched in on himself under his cloak. He was a far cry from the terror that had shaken Bilbo on the parapet and called him a descendent of rats. Why, Bilbo had seen fauntlings caught with their hand in the cookie jar that were less miserable. He seemed barely strong enough to hold himself upright at the moment. Still.

"You were terribly rude up there, you know. I was frightened quite out of my wits, " Bilbo said. "But, all things considered, I… suppose you had your reasons. I too could have had a bit more tact, and there really is no excuse for stealing, I should know, having been a victim many times myself from certain relatives. A far as I'm concerned the matter is forgiven and forgotten and if we never need to bring it up again, it will be too soon."

"So easily?" Thorin said with a frown. "I expected it would take many years for you to forgive the harm I might have caused you up there and…just now."

Bilbo huffed out a sigh. "Well, we Hobbits are not one to hold grudges." Relatively speaking, he added mentally.

"A soft and fickle people, then," Thorin muttered, but immediately seemed guilty at his own words.

"Practical, and not prone to throwing our lives and health away on old disputes better left in the past," Bilbo huffed. "Certainly we are not as stubborn as certain dwarves I could name, though some of my kind make a good attempt at it." Bilbo looked down at his teacup, noting with some annoyance that it had gone cold long ago, and he without tasting a drop. "Seems a bit hypocritical in any case: you just forgave me quickly enough."

"You've done enough to earn a lifetime of forgiveness, Master Baggins," Thorin said softly. "I'm only sorry that I ever forgot that."

"I…yes, well," Bilbo began. Thorin was looking up at him now from beneath dark lashes; his head tilted so the black scales up his cheek were hidden in shadow. The blue light shining from his eyes seemed to have faded, or perhaps been overpowered by the firelight and Thorin's skin had taken on a ruddier glow, less the ghostly pallor that had been there when Bilbo first saw him. Bilbo felt himself blush to be looking so closely. "Does this mean I'm no longer banished from Erebor?'

"It's already a poor exile if you can walk in by the back door," Thorin said, with a faint smile that made Bilbo wonder if he should move away from the fire, it was indeed quite warm.

"Then might we not walk out of it now?" Bilbo said, feeling a bit reckless and Tookish, but the prospect of the errand proving far simpler than he expected caused a rush of giddiness. He offered his hand to Thorin.

And, wonder of wonders, Thorin looked at Bilbo's hand and his own appeared from within the folds of the cloak, hovering above Bilbo's. Then he paused. The snap and pop of the fire filled the silence. Thorin was staring down at his own hand, the black scales wrapped around his wrists and trailing up his hand like a choking vine. Talons glinted in the firelight at the end of his fingertips. Then he retracted his hand and it sank back to his side, and Bilbo's heart sank with it. Thorin shook his head. "I cannot."

"Thorin, you have been ill, the others will understand," Bilbo said with a sigh. "No one is going to blame you."

"An illness? That's all you think this is?" Thorin said incredulously. He stood then and pushed back the hood and tossed the edge of his cloak from his shoulders. He wore only black trousers beneath it, his feet were bare, and if Bilbo made a somewhat undignified squeaking sound it was quickly swallowed by his subsequent gasp of alarm. The flickering light cast deep shadows over gleaming scales scratched in a jagged line from above Thorin's left eye, down his cheek and throat where it spread out in great ragged patches across hard planes of his bare chest, the skin dry and curled at the edges like burnt paper. In his rush to grant Thorin a cloak, Bilbo had not noticed how far the diseased flesh had spread.

He moved closer, probing at the Thorin's chest with the tip of his fingers and found the scales dry and smooth, like snakeskin, and the deep black of their hue perfectly matched Thorin's hair, as if the scales were an extension of his coloring. Thorin's own pale flesh was dry at the edges and…hot, fevered even and it was only when this thought registered that he realized his face was inches from Thorin's chest and that Thorin was watching him but had done nothing to stop Bilbo's inspection.

"If it's not an illness, what is it?" Bilbo said, and was quite proud that he did not stutter as he pulled away.

"A curse. Some parting gift from Smaug to ensnare any who tries to reclaim the gold," Thorin said. He pulled the cloak back over his shoulders in a strangely self-conscious move, concealing his body again, though the hood remained down. "I know not for certain, I know only that I lacked the strength to resist it.

"I cannot face my people like this. Twisted, rotting from within…" Helpless frustration contorted Thorin's face. "And if it is a punishment? For my crimes against you, and against my kin. Like a dragon I have behaved, so a dragon I have become?" The distant look had returned to Thorin's eyes, panic that seemed to take him far away, and he stared as if contemplating some unimaginable horror.

Bilbo's heart twisted, for it seemed wrong that one who had always been so fearless should wear such a look of terror. "Listen to me. Listen, Thorin. There is a cure for this, I'm sure of it. You think this is a curse? Then we should go to Gandalf, he will know what to do."

Thorin jerked away at Gandalf's name, the lost look instantly replaced by fury. The glow of his eyes snapped alight, bathing his face in its ghostly pallor. "I will not go begging on my knees for aid from that old traitor."

"No one said anything about begging," Bilbo said. "But, unless you've forgotten, he is the only wizard for hundreds of miles."

"He sent my father to his death on a hopeless quest to regain our home, abandoned us to the mercy of the Elves, twice. What purpose he had in in aiding us I know not, but it was not for our benefit. Even now he takes the side of our enemies against us. No, I have been blind too long to the wiles of that wizard, I will not seek him now," Thorin snapped.

"Thorin, that's _insane_," Bilbo sighed. But at his words Thorin's back stiffened and something passed over his face that looked like…fear. And Bilbo remembered then a conversation overheard long ago, about the strain of madness that ran in Thorin's family, and backpeddled frantically. "If you will not see Gandalf, then what do you propose? We only have supplies for a fortnight after all."

"We?" Thorin said. But the fear had been replaced by relief, and some of the shadow and anger left his face, which in turn calmed Bilbo immensely.

"Of course! I was sent here with a job to do, after all, and I think you have been down here alone long enough," Bilbo said. He meant it all quite matter-of-fact but trailed off at Thorin's expression, for he was staring as if Bilbo had said something quite extraordinary. It was all the hobbit could do to keep from fidgeting beneath that gaze. Then Thorin seemed to catch himself and looked back over his shoulder at the hoard.

"This cannot be the first time such a malady has afflicted my kind. There may be some record of it in our archives," Thorin said then a memory seemed to occur to him for he snuck a glance back at Bilbo and continued sheepishly "Unless you wish to rest first?"

"Well, if we're going to be down here for some time, it would make sense to form a more permanent camp," Bilbo said, nodding to the sea of gold on which their small campfire sat haphazardly. "And it has been a long day, a bit of rest would not go amiss."

"Then that is what we will do," Thorin said with a nod to himself. He hesitated and Bilbo nearly jumped out of his skin as Thorin patted a hand against his shoulder. "Thank you."

And perhaps in that moment the memory finally fell away, of Thorin's face twisted in anger, of the cold wind and the stone whirling beneath his feet, and took its place firmly in the past. Bilbo smiled tentatively back. "Think nothing of it."

* * *

**II**

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams  
In death's dream kingdom

* * *

**Author Note: **Thank you for reading this far! If you're enjoying the story, do please take a moment to leave a comment, it would mean the world to me.


	6. Chapter 6

Thus began a routine that could have been called domestic if not for their surroundings. Bilbo suggested they move their small campsite to the platform above the treasury, as for a multitude of reasons he was wary of remaining so close to the gold and it hardly made a comfortable resting place. Thorin grumbled at this but complied. Once there, Bilbo set aside the foodstuffs in neat piles and selected from the hoard a beautifully wrought iron tripod, carved with knotwork patterns and mysterious dwarven runes, to serve as their fireplace. Thorin helped drag it up the stairs, and together they placed it in the center of the camp.

He had just laid out the bedrolls when Thorin returned, depositing an armful of tinder and a wide-mouthed bucket of black rocks at the edge of the living space Bilbo had prepared for them.

"Charcoal?" Bilbo said, peering into the bucket and brushing his finger over one of the rocks. It came away black with coal dust.

"From the forges," Thorin said shortly, taking a seat on one of the bedrolls. "Far more efficient than broken furniture. Once I get it started they will burn for days."

"If we can get them hot enough. I seem to recall forge coals require a great deal more heat to light," Bilbo said. "I should have a tinderbox here somewhere. I hope it will be enough" He turned back to the mostly empty pack, and sure enough there was a simple copper box hiding at the bottom, which he handed it to Thorin.

Thorin snorted. "Getting them hot enough will be no great task. A dwarven infant could have these white hot before he knew how to walk."

"Oh course, how silly of me to forget for even a moment that you're all obsessed with smithing," Bilbo said, rolling his eyes. "Just let me know if I can be of help."

"Thanks to our _obsession_, as you put it, I have lit and probably built more forges than you have days in your life. I doubt there is much you can do aid me," Thorin said, turning his attention to the brazier, dumping the charcoal into the basin and setting to work with the tinder and thus did not see Bilbo making a face at him behind his back. Bilbo sobered though, as a thought occurred to him.

"Even here in Erebor?" Bilbo said. "All those seemed fairly well constructed to me."

"No, not here," Thorin said as he struck the flint and steel together. They sparked immediately and the tinder branches caught within a matter of seconds, Bilbo noted with some admiration. It usually took him several attempts when getting his own hearth going. "Lighting the forge is the first job of a blacksmith when he begins his day. But in Erebor…" Thorin paused, exhaled, and some of the tension bled out of him as he remembered where they stood. "_Here_, the forges were never cold except for repairs. And there were hundreds at work, at all hours. The hammers of our smiths fell day and night, like ringing bells." There was reverence in Thorin's voice as he spoke. Then his expression hardened. "No, the forges of Erebor needed little help from me. It was the forges of Men, poor things barely hot enough for pig iron, that were my lot in the years of our exile. I wrung what craft I could from them, but for little purpose but to mend crude pots, nails, horseshoes…" Thorin fairly snarled the last. The fire was spreading beneath his hand with remarkable speed, though the forge coals had not yet caught.

"Even if you left the mountain in haste, wouldn't you have had some gold and jewels with you? Even the smallest of these gems would be enough to set up any hobbit for years, if he could find anyone with enough gold to buy it from him," said Bilbo.

"Hardly," Thorin said, and seemed to be biting back a further retort, possibly regarding the lives of Hobbits. Instead he took a moment to blow more heat into the kindling. "Much went to buying food and shelter in those first years, at exorbitant prices. There were thousands of us, and our need was obvious, so in all places we were overcharged. My family did what we had to to keep our people alive." Bilbo went quiet as he absorbed this, imagining long trains of dwarves, their raiment still blackened from the dragon fire, crossing the landscape with their wagons, bringing with them what belongings had been on hand during the attack.

"Still, with so many of you on the road I shouldn't think a _prince_ would need to stoop to such work," Bilbo said. "I remember the wandering dwarven smiths that came to the Shire when I was lad. They seemed a rough bunch. I find it hard to imagine you amongst them."

"I may well have been," said Thorin with a grimace. His voice grew harsh with memory. "We always needed more hands. They were dark times, when all beauty was robbed from us, leaving only _drudgery_."

Bilbo thought of his warm hobbit hole, where no danger or want had ever touched him. He had once ventured out from there when the lock on the door jammed, hoping to bring it to one of the dwarven smiths passing through the town. Tinkers the Hobbits called them, and he had rushed to and from their shop as quickly as possible, not even looking them in the eye when he paid the fee for their work. They had been a fearsome bunch, with wild beards and piercing gazes. Or so he had imagined, he had been too afraid to look them in the eye. Had one of those dwarves been Thorin all those years ago? The lock had worked beautifully after that, and never jammed again. He had never really taken the time to admire the marvelous craftsmanship that had gone into it, only felt relief that it meant he'd never have to interact again with those big, fearsome folk. Or so he had thought at the time, before this journey. In truth he felt a rush of shame now at the memory and reached out without thinking to pat Thorin on the shoulder. "All in the past now."

Bilbo's brow furrowed. The fire had not yet caught yet heat was radiating through the fabric draped over Thorin's shoulders. It was an intense heat, more than feverish, like touching the door of a stove. Bilbo pulled his hand back and only then saw Thorin's expression.

The dwarf was hunched over the fire and his hands…his hands were clutching the edges of the tripod, though the metal be searing hot. Thorin's eyes were wide, wild, and unseeing and his breath came in great panting gasps. The muscles in his arms spasmed as if he would tear the iron apart with his bare hands. Then before Bilbos's eyes, Thorin's fingers clenched and there was the shriek of metal as his claws tore deep furrows into the iron. Bilbo's head jerked up to gaze on Thorin's face. His teeth were gritted in a silent snarl and was Bilbo mistaken before that the black scales went only to Thorin's brow? Now they ran in a jagged line up the left side of his face to his hairline.

"Thorin, Thorin!" Bilbo said in alarm, dashing around the brazier to stand in front of Thorin, the fire flickering between them. "It's all right, it's over! You're home now, you're safe!"

"Over?" Thorin said. His voice held the grate of cracking stone. "Vultures sit before our gates, waiting to pick over the corpses of our dead, they who only hindered us in our quest, and would not raise a finger to aid us when we wandered in starvation and poverty and you would tell me it's _over_?" The tripod trembled beneath his hands and Bilbo took a step back, thinking it would be torn asunder in a shower of fire and charcoal. Yet a greater heat seemed to radiate from Thorin himself and the blue of his gaze burned with its own flame. The black scales of his forearms caught the light as the gray flesh at the edges cracked and flaked. "You, you…!"

A change came over Thorin's face, and rage gave way to nausea. His face turned a peculiar shade of gray beneath the ruddy cast of the flames. "Get away from me," he choked.

"Thorin, what are you…?" Bilbo said.

"I said, get away!" Thorin reached over the flames, grabbing Bilbo by the collar then jerked his arm, flinging Bilbo across the polished stone floor where he skidded, stopping just feet from the edge of the platform. Bilbo scrambled away from the edge on his hands and knees, sputtering protests, but Thorin wasn't listening. He was hunched over the flames, his eyes squeezed shut, sweat glinting on his forehead. Then without warning he doubled over and _fire_ exploded from his lips, whirling across the coals. They flared white with heat as they caught, raising a gout of black smoke into the air.

Thorin tumbled back, falling to the floor, and curled in on himself in a coughing fit. When the storm passed he looked up, eyes red-rimmed from the exertion, looking over the flames at Bilbo. For a moment there was only the cheerful crackling of the fire as they stared at one another.

"Well, that is one way to start a fire," Bilbo remarked. And well, what else could he do? For if he started screaming now, he was fairly certain he would never stop. Much easier to just see it all as Thorin having a bout with the flu and ignore the tiny, hysterical voice at the back of his mind that ran in circles and gibbered, 'Fire! Dragon! _Fire_!'

Thorin tilted his head at Bilbo's words and gave him a look of stunned incredulity, mouth slightly agape and brow furrowed. He appeared to be struggling for words to respond to what appeared to be the most inane sentence he had ever heard. As he could not see his own expression, he likely did not understand the reason why Bilbo swiftly clamped a hand over his own mouth, or the choked sounds that escaped as a hysterical giggle.

"I'm sorry, it's just… this really is a fine mess, and no mistake," Bilbo said. Thorin bristled, pulling the hood of the cloak over his head from where it had fallen back during his convulsions, then rose to his feet, walking towards the stairs.

"No, wait, Thorin I didn't mean…" Bilbo said, grabbing Thorin by the arms and stopping him as he tried to walk past.

"This is not your burden," Thorin said, wrenching his arm back but Bilbo held on.

"I say," Bilbo said, drawing himself straighter, "it certainly is! And I can hardly be expected to do nothing. Besides a burden shared is a burden halved. Thorin," he said as the dwarf looked away and again tried to free himself. "I will help you find a cure for this."

"Where did you think I was going?" Thorin said.

"Oh, I don't know, probably to go sit in a corner somewhere and brood, though I'm sure you'd look quite majestic as you did so. Was I entirely wrong?"

Thorin's hardened lips drew to a thin line that told Bilbo he had not missed his mark. "If you must know, I thought to go first on my own to search the archives. I see no more point in waiting."

"A likely story," Bilbo said. "Very well, it is a good plan and quicker accomplished with two. In the meantime though, I imagine you're hungry after emptying your stomach like that. Let me make us up a packed lunch first."

"I'm not hungry," Thorin said. "And you cannot read Khuzdûl. It would be a pointless exercise."

"First of all, I don't believe you. You've been down here for days with only a cup of tea in you, unless Smaug had a hidden larder somewhere. Second, who says all the books will be in dwarvish? I speak Westron, and know some Sindarin from my mother; it may be that the other races know more of this malady than yours." Thorin glowered and Bilbo interrupted him with a flap of his hands. "Or not! But I won't wait here while you go wandering off into the dark. Besides, you would actually have to tie me up in a sack to stop me," Bilbo reminded him.

"A tempting offer," Thorin said, and Bilbo might have huffed in annoyance if not for the faint smile teasing the corner of his lips. "Very well, pack your lunch and let us be off."

Bilbo nodded, then dashed over to the now empty pack, tossing in a few apples, cheese, bread and cured sausages, remembering the dwarven distaste for any food that didn't involve meat. He might make some sandwiches once in the library, he did not risk making them now for fear Thorin might take off. Only at the last minute did he remember to toss in a few candles along with the tinderbox. He did not fancy the idea of having to wander the vast caverns of Erebor on his own, or waiting around an empty camp for Thorin to return when the dwarf had already shown a talent for disappearing for days on end.

"Ready," he said. Thorin nodded and together they set off into the dark, passing out of the gold treasure room of Thrór into the winding caverns of the underground city.

The halls were dark, almost too dark for Bilbo to navigate but Thorin moved through them unerringly. When Bilbo lagged behind, uncertain where to step without tumbling into the fathomless distance below, and could not help but wonder why dwarves seemed so averse to railings, Thorin grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him onward without looking back. His hand was warm, too warm by Bilbo's thinking, and together they navigated what felt like miles past great bronze doors and pillared halls. There were even some fountains that still trickled, adding the silvery _pling_ of water to the underground breeze that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. Bilbo tried not to look too closely at the scattered mounds of cloth and dust, though whether out of fear for what he might see or respect for the dead he did not bear to examine.

"We're here," Thorin said, stopping before a great arch that once held double doors, before they had been torn from their hinges and smashed to kindling on the floor. Bilbo stepped gingerly around the wreckage, and coughed as dust assaulted his nose on the other side, waving his hand to clear the air.

Then he stopped, mouth falling open as his eyes adjusted to the better light. Somewhere high above tiny holes like stars had been drilled into the ceiling then covered with glass, allowing natural light to filter down. It caught the dust hanging in the air, making them appear as chains of golden light, solid enough to touch. And beyond, beyond…

Books. Shelves climbing to the ceilings, and stretching away from his as far as the eye could see, stacks of scrolls and tablets too. The walls were covered in intricate patterns and engraved runes, while solemn statues of dwarves held the ceilings above on their shoulders, and smaller statues of marble and alabaster filled the alcoves. Unlike all the other statues Bilbo had seen, these did not carry axes or swords. One closest to the door had a forked beard and in one hand held a scroll and in the other a tablet. Further down a statue of what he thought might be a dwarven woman held a hammer and tongs. Between them was an empty alcove, deep claw marks like knife wounds scrawled into the stone. Bilbo thought he might guess what had once stood there: statues of gold and precious metal, looted by Smaug to be added to the greater hoard.

"_Thorin_," Bilbo breathed as his held tilted back and he looked up, up, up to the dome above. "This is magnificent!"

"Yet much diminished since last I saw it," Thorin said. Bilbo turned to him and saw his face was shadowed as if by a deep, abiding grief. When Bilbo looked back to the library he saw it then, that which had been hidden by glory on his first sight. Fallen shelves, shattered tablets, manuscripts torn and scattered across the floor. Dust coated every surface and there were black scorch marks upon the walls.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said quietly. "It must have been truly glorious. I never would have guessed."

"What do you mean?" said Thorin turning to him, puzzled.

"Well, except for Balin and Ori, none of you seemed a very scholarly bunch. But this library is bigger even than Lord Elrond's!"

Thorin snorted and looked back at the books. "You would judge a people by their lowest point and think you have the measure of them? Erebor has one of the greatest libraries this side of the sea; the only one greater was in Khazad-dûm, before it was lost. Even the cities of Men cannot compare." There was no mistaking the pride in his voice. "We record everything: our histories, building techniques, art, astronomy… Unlike Elves, we cannot depend on memory or long lives to protect our knowledge. When the last dwarf falls he will do so with a book in hand, recording the names and deeds of all who fell before him."

Bilbo shivered at the image. "It's just…when I said I would help you I did not, could not imagine it would be so large! I have one of the largest libraries in the Shire and it would not fill one of these shelves. How will we begin to find what we need? Do you know the author's name?" he said looked out over the ruined expanse with dismay.

Thorin looked at him askance. "We won't need it, the library has its own organization system of which the author's name is only a small part. So long as it hasn't been destroyed we should have no trouble." He shook his head. "Honestly, organizing a library by author? No wonder the Men cannot keep any decent records, they must always be losing what they've wrought." With that he wandered over to a corner Bilbo had not heretofore noticed, and pulled out a set of shelves filled with…tablets? There were runes inscribed on them that Bilbo could not read. Thorin skimmed them once, then opened a second shelf reading whatever was written there quickly, before shutting both and setting off towards the shelves.

"Wait, what aren't you going to look at the others too?" Bilbo said, trotting after him.

"No need. The information could only be amongst the histories, specifically those accounts which deal with the sacking of dwarven cities by dragons."

"You could tell all of that with one look?" Bilbo exclaimed.

"It's a numeric system, each subject is divided by number with subcategories within based on the era or topic, I needed only to refresh my memory. For that matter, what histories we have in the language of Elves and Men are on the way so you may set to work as well," said Thorin without breaking stride.

"A numeric system, imagine that! I have never heard of such things," said Bilbo, for he was in fact a scholar at heart and found himself strangely excited by the idea. Why, how efficient it would be for larger collections! All that he had seen were done by the name of the author, or of the work if there none was known, which meant beyond a certain point it became impossible to find anything if one didn't already know what they were looking for. He had tried introducing a few different organization systems, which only made matters worse. To think the dwarves had come up with something so efficient! Well, he supposed he should not be surprised.

Many of the shelves had tumbled with time or by Smaug's destruction, their contents scattered over the floor, but a remarkable number remained standing and untouched save for a thick layer of dust. Thorin stopped before of one of them. "Here lie the histories of Elves and Men. I wish you luck."

"For your sake I hope I have it," Bilbo replied, and squared his shoulders as he looked to the great carven shelf that carried mostly scrolls, some of them with silver tassels hanging from the ends, or wrapped around ornate carven rods. There was an elvish feel to it that set the works apart from the rest of the library.

"You're sure you won't have any trouble?"

"I'll be fine," Bilbo said, and cracked his knuckles.

"Some of those are very high up, would you like me to find you something to stand on? A stool, perhaps, or a box?"

"I climbed higher than I like to remember up a burning pine tree, I imagine a bookshelf should pose no difficulty," said Bilbo dryly.

He heard a soft _whuffing_ sound and was glad his face was turned so that Thorin could not see how hard he was grinning in response to the dwarf's quiet chuckling. "There are quite a lot of books."

"Which means that for the first time in this whole blasted journey, I am actually set to a task at which I have some experience. You have more to go through than I do, shouldn't you be going?"

"Indeed," Thorin laughed, and strode off down the hall and out of sight.

* * *

These do not appear:

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column

There, is a tree swinging

* * *

**Author Note**: Thank you for reading, do let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 7

Thorin was still chuckling to himself as he rounded the stacks. The corridors seemed to go for miles, but the practicality of his people meant this was no aimless search. The number of the catalogue brought him far into the darkened halls of the library, still clear as day to his own vision. Here the books were mixed with older tablets, runes stamped into baked clay or carved into stone. Dwarves had been late adopters of the wood-pulp parchment and vellum of Elven records, being long distrustful of their fragility. But eventually the dwarves had to admit to their utility, particularly in regards to storage space, for thousands of tablets took up far more space than a single scroll or paper tome.

Thorin's touch was reverent as he found the histories, tracing the back of his finger down the spines, careful to keep hooked claws from the aged bindings. They were familiar books, the histories of his people, of his family. Though dust coated them, no vermin had managed to penetrate the halls of Erebor and the room was dry enough that the books were still intact. The first one he touched, drawing his eye like a lodestone, was the tale of the great Azaghâl, the Lord of Gabilgathol. He who, though slain by the dragon Glaurung, delivered such a blow upon him that the beast fled from battle, taking the many beasts of the Enemy with him. A rush of nostalgia filled him at the sight of the worn tome. How many times had he, Frerin, and Dís begged their father to read it to them? How many times in turn had Fíli and Kíli begged him to tell again their favorite tale? There was no need to open it; he could have recited the entire work from memory.

But the tale of Azaghâl, while a great one, had only the barest description of the dragon, and no mention of any illness associated with their kind. He moved on to the next volume, carefully taking it down from the shelf and turned to the first page. He recognized this one too from childhood: the coming of the cold-drake to the Grey Mountains, and the death of his great-grandfather Dáin I and his grandfather's brother Frór before the gates, almost two centuries before Thorin was born. The survivors had fled those halls, his grandfather going south to found Erebor, while his great-uncle went on to settle the Iron Hills, now ruled by Thorin's cousin, Dáin II. It seemed that ever were the dwarves beset, driven from one home to the next by dragons and other servants of the Enemy.

Thorin's teeth dug into his lower lip at the sight of the scales on his own arm and he closed the book, putting it too aside. It was many more books that he sampled before he found one that went into further detail on Glaurung, Father of Dragons, whose baleful gaze was a weapon of its own in battle. How long he dwelt in the treasury of Nulukkizdîn, once the city of the Petty-dwarves before it was settled by Elves and renamed Nargothrond. He knew the Petty-dwarves had died out long ago, yet he felt the old flicker of curiosity at that vanished people, so disdained by his own ancestors.

So far, there was no mention of any illness that resembled his own. It was far too early to give in to frustration, he reminded himself with an inner voice that sounded suspiciously like Bilbo. After all, he had no knowledge of this disease and so it would not be waiting in the histories he already knew. Still, impatience nagged at him, for he had to admit that Bilbo was right: that if they could not find a source for the disease or some clue as to the cure in the next few days, the best course of action was to bargain with Gandalf.

Thorin knew that pride played some role in his desire to stay well away from the wizard, but there was more to it than that. He could never fully forgive Gandalf for his role in the armies at the gate, or for what Thorin knew now of his father's end. But here, in the darkness surrounded by the histories of his people, he could not help but admit in his heart of hearts that he wished to avoid Gandalf for another reason. For Gandalf numbered among the wise of Middle Earth, he could well know this curse on sight. And if he saw Thorin, if he said there was no cure…?

Thorin pushed such thoughts aside and turned back to the shelves. If there be no hope, let him discover it on his own, not before the judgmental gaze of wizards and Men. Had not Bilbo said that they feared him dead? Then it would be simple to vanish into the darkness of his city, never to return. He would prefer it to facing their judgment. He would prefer it to the eyes of his nephews and kin.

Other tomes held much the same information: the migrations of the dwarves, and the machinations of the Enemy. Soon he turned to older works, to tablets yet to be copied to flimsy parchment, among them, to a section on the history of the Petty-dwarves. Thorin was reminded of how there was no final answer on why they had diminished and ultimately vanished from the world. The histories of his people, the Longbeards, barely touched upon them, for they had been a despised off-shoot of Durin's Folk and their disappearance had been counted no great loss at the time.

Yet Thorin knew well the histories of his own people, of the Third and Second Ages, and knew they carried no mention of the dragon sickness as he suffered it, and so he found himself drawn to the dusty tablets that held the few surviving records of that lost people. For in truth no scholar had made any real study of the Petty-dwarves, yet theirs were some of the oldest accounts of the library.

He carefully removed some ten stone tablets from a lower shelf, tucked into a corner almost as if they were hidden, their stone surfaces blackened by fire and rubbed smooth by time. They were carved with runes in a dialect of Khuzdûl so ancient it were strange to Thorin's eyes, even though the language of dwarves had changed little over the years. He set them carefully, one by one, onto the floor and knelt before them, bent forward as he painstakingly scanned the worn script. Someone had thought these tablets belonged here, near the histories of Glaurung and the Sack of Nargothrond, yet he did not recall seeing a record of their existence in the reference lists. A dwarf would never deliberately destroy such a work, or let it be truly lost, but might it have indeed been hidden there?

Thorin's eyes widened as piece by piece another tale came together from between the lacuna and cracked spaces of the ancient tablets. For this record _by_ the Petty-dwarves, not only about them, an account of their own history. He read eagerly at first, then slowed, eyes widening with horror, as a very different tale emerged than the one he had learned as a child.

_Read here the account of Mîm, last of the Nauglath, called the Petty-dwarves and the wicked dwarves by those who despise us. I leave to you the account of my people, our only account, so that our enemies may know the depth of their wrongs against us.  
To whosoever should find this: despair, for you have found the hoard of Glaurung and your doom is nigh. _

_You shall not leave it whole._

_We, the Nauglath, awoke in the shadow of the Enemy, far from the kindly West, and in those early days before the Sun and Moon we called him Lord. We knew no Maker, if ever such a one existed. In the infancy of our race he was the Dark Hunter who stole our people into the night. In our childhood he came to us openly, and took us to his fortress. There he bent the works of our hands to his use. He taught us dark spells and crafts, the clever use of steel and stone for bringing death. We watched as the Enemy stole too the Eldar children, breaking them into the shape of the Rakhâs, of the Orcs. Our task was to craft armor for these broken creatures, to forge the wicked curve of their blades, and outfit them for battle. They were dark days, when all beauty was denied us, leaving only drudgery. In the pits of his fortress we labored so our children may live, surrounded by the wicked creatures of his armies._

_It was many long centuries before the first Nauglath escaped. We fled west and settled there in the hollow hills, burrowing deep into the earth, building our halls and fortresses. We made our homes in Bar-en-Nibin-Noeg and sacred Nulukkizdîn. There we thrived at last, away from the Enemy though not beyond his reach._

_Yet even there we were pursued: by his servants, which we expected, but also by the Eldar, for whom we were not prepared. They hunted our kind as vermin, slaying us in our homes for sport. The points of their arrows shone bright, the gleam of their swords cold and merciless as the stars they worshipped. Ever our numbers dwindled. Yet our distant kin, the Indrafangs—_

At this, Thorin stopped reading for a moment, trying to place where he had heard the term before, then he recalled. _Indrafangs_ was an ancient word, not even proper Khuzdûl, a net term to describe all the seven Dwarven clans besides the Petty-dwarves, in particular the Longbeards. His ancestors.

_…the Indrafangs turned their back. Though we called for their aid, they disowned and disavowed us, called us small, the descendent of rats not fit to be the children of their Maker. When the last of our people was slain at Nulukkizdîn the Eldar took it for their own. They called it Nargothrond and built there their walls and towers, tearing the stone and filling our sacred halls with their clamor._

_The Indrafangs knew of our plight. They stood by and did nothing._

_Worn but not broken by our hardship, our numbers diminished and our children dying, we the Nauglath raised our voices in supplication to the Enemy. We called upon him for aid, remembering the great armies and fell beasts with their sharp teeth and strong armor._

_"Give us power," we begged. "Make us like the orcs and trolls and wargs, the great generals of your host. Give us fire and armor and weapons. Give us vengeance, and we will serve you again, now willingly. We will become the greatest foes to the Eldar who had hunted us, and the Indrafangs who spurned us. Let us destroy their great cities, cast black spells upon the treasures there so none may enjoy their stolen riches. Let us spread your will into the very hearts of our foes with a touch. Let us curse the ground we walk upon with your plague."_

_And the Enemy granted our wish, taking our warriors and craftsmen, our men, women and children, back with him deep into the iron fortress._

The tablet broke off here in a crooked line, the rough edges smoothed by millennia. Thorin fumbled amongst the stack, frantically scanning the ancient Khuzdûl runes for the continuation, even while his stomach churned with dread.

_I, Mîm, last of the Nauglath, was the only one to leave that place, the filthy pens in the pits of Angband. There I saw our children die in droves, snatched from their mother's breast to be tested, given teeth and scale and fire. Our craftsmen's hands were broken, twisted into claws by the experiments of the Enemy. Many went missing and were never seen again, but their screams rang out from the dark, and in the night, whispers filtered down to our sleeping places. Whispers that taught us the blackest of magics and made our flesh roil and shift like water over our bones, and in our agony we saw the Enemies design for a monster greater than any known._

_And we were glad._

_We knew our true enemies then: the Eldar and the Indrafangs, who waited beyond the walls. We had no need of peace, for our hatred was enough. The children were given freely, the sacrifice of flesh offered willingly, for it meant our vengeance upon they who had hunted us and spurned us. The shadow of the Enemy was our refuge, our home, and our womb._

_Yet I, I was weak. My sons, Khîm and Ibûn, were born in that place and in my weakness I took them thence. We fled the pits and wandered long and far to our abandoned fortress of Bar-en-Nibin-Noeg, called Amon Rûdh. None of our kin remained there: they had passed from the land long before, into the darkness beyond the grave, or into the shadow in the East. If there were others, we no longer knew of them. Two hundred years passed with no word. _

_Then, mighty Glaurung erupted from the lands of the Shadow, trailing fire and woe. He ravaged the lands of the Eldar, burned their trees and fortresses, and we knew. Knew that the pits of Angband had spat forth our kin once again. Blessed now with armor, flame, and claw, while we weak creatures, we faithless three languished in filth beneath our hill. For Glaurung reclaimed the city of Nulukkizdîn, tearing down the walls of the Eldar, slaying their soldiers like sheep, and bewildering their heroes with his gaze. But we of Amon Rûdh were afraid, and did not join him, our lost kinsmen, and for that error we suffered, and lost all._

_My sons are dead now. The grief lies too heavy to relate here, and I stand now in the fortress of Glaurung, in the halls of Nulukkizdîn, and wait to serve him. _

_Know this: we will bring death to the Eldar by fire and claw, but for Indrafangs we reserve a greater punishment. Cursed will you ever be, who spurned and betrayed us, for Glaurung is the father of dragons and where he walks ever of his kind shall spring. Look to your gold, ye Indrafangs. It holds your doom. _

_For the death of our children, for the death of our people, we call this vengeance upon you: that you will know the final weapon of the Enemy granted to us, that the Indrafangs shall suffer as we did. Through the gold the blight of the dragon will seize you, mind and body. It will twist your form as the Enemy twisted our people, it will break your mind to his service. It will find you in your homes, and in your love of beauty. It will find you wherever you flee, for thus does the Enemy create more dragons in his service._

_Beware the gold if you can, traitors of the Nauglath. For thus our vengeance is achieved._

There was a distant rushing noise, or perhaps it was only in his mind for it came from everywhere and nowhere at once. Beyond it a roaring, like that of a hurricane, and Thorin pressed his hands to his ears, gazing sightless down at the tablets.

Why had his people never spoken of this? Yet he knew the answer as soon as it came to his mind. Just as none spoke of the source of goblins and orcs, the secret shame of those races which had abandoned their own to the Enemy. He had grown up thinking dwarves free of that taint, though he had known of the Petty-dwarves, but only as a civilization long dead. All buried things comes forth and so had this, seeping into the hearts of his people, of his line, his grandfather wandering halls of treasure, his father fleeing in shame and madness from the battlefield, and him….

His hands clenched and the sharp tips of his fingers, _claws_, dug into his scalp as he stared forward. His breath came in short, panting gasps.

_You are not your grandfather_, a voice crooned at the back of his mind, a voice of memory, his own arrogance reflected back at him when Balin had chastised him at the hidden door. _Not chastised, insulted. For you are greater than them. You regained your home. They abandoned you. They left you alone. Betrayed you…_

Darkness stirred out of the corner of his vision, like a living thing, shadows moving through the air in a darkening flurry, falling around him like dying leaves, gathering over the tablets, at his feet. And in those flecks he saw the children of the Nauglath, heard their cries as they were bent and twisted, as their eyes caught alight and they looked West to those who had betrayed them, who had failed to protect them. And he knew that hatred would never die, that such spells ran dark and deep, in memory and anger and blood. Their curse spread in his gray dying skin and the oily blackness beneath, in the hook of his claws and the fire in his throat. And it would not release him, except in death, for their hatred echoed across the millennia.

The shadows closed around him, vice-like at his throat and cutting off his breath, and flowed up from his feet, covering the floor, the room. He was drowning, and only one thought remained clear through the oncoming storm: that there was no salvation. There was no escape from this. It was too old, too full of hatred. The curse of the dragon on the gold followed wherever they touched, and he had blundered into it, falling as so many of his kin had before. Had Smaug been thus, once? He could see a red-bearded dwarf amongst gold of ages long ago, the red scales like a creeping vine as they bent and twisted him into his new shape. Thorin's gorge rose at the vision and he clamped his hand over lips already hardened against the flame of his breath.

_Find Bilbo,_ a corner of his mind whispered, the part that had known prisons, and crushing jaws, and barrels, and the Pale Orc looming above him. _Find Bilbo. _And Thorin's mind, that part which saw even now the shadows gathering around him, rising to waist-height, said in a daze: _how could he_? Bilbo was long away, far away beyond the mountain. He was among the green things of his home, among his books and his pipe and the things he loved best. Far, far away, not here beneath the mountain, not here with the screams of the Nauglath children, with the gold, and the dead dreams of a dead kingdom.

The shadows swirled like ash on the breeze, rising around him and he stumbled to his feet, but found no escape. His vision spotted and all he could feel was gold radiating from within the mountain. Claiming him. And he knew he must find it, though he knew not if it was the gold of coins or of curls bathed in sunlight that he sought, for his mind screamed with two voices. The shadows deepened, darkness sucking at his limbs, his throat, and lips, sucking the air from him, blinding him.

He looked up, to the pinpricks in the stone far above, bringing light as distant and pitiless as the stars, as the shadows closed over his head.

* * *

And voices are  
In the wind's singing  
More distant and more solemn  
Than a fading star.

* * *

**Author Note****: **Thank you for reading! As you can probably see, countless hours of work and research go into this fic, so I'd really love to hear what you think of it so far!


	8. Chapter 8

The conversation with Thorin had been so pleasant that Bilbo momentarily forgot the reason for their presence here: namely, that of Thorin's alarming transformation. Instead, he was excited at the prospect of finally being tasked with work at which he had some skill. He first began by sorting out which titles were likely to contain any history of dragons, careful to mark their locations so they may be properly returned. He did not wish to earn the wrath of the next librarian of Erebor, for if all went well he'd like to spend considerable time amongst these shelves, perhaps one day even adding a book of his own to the hallowed collection. A tempting thought, but he was getting ahead of himself.

He started first with the lowest section of the shelves, for despite his bravado to Thorin, he would rather put off climbing to the highest ones if it could at all be avoided. Unfortunately, the dwarves' efficient system seemed to have broken down somewhat in this section, and there was no rhyme or reason to the sorting as far as language went. They all seemed to be arranged first only as "Not Khuzdûl" and then based on subject, so Westron, Sindarin, and even Quenya works sat side by side. He lit the candles and set to work, skimming the pages and unraveling scrolls, his eyes scanning for key words like "drake", "dragon", or "wyrm" in the books in Westron, and "lhûg" and "amlug" in the Sindarin works. Many times he had to stop himself from reading them cover-to-cover, for they held such a wealth of information that he could hardly contain himself.

Still, after a few minutes he would inevitably put the book or scroll aside with a sigh and return to his search. He found more than one account on the Fall of Gondolin, in which dragons had played a major role, various translations on the tragedy of the Children of Húrin, and a reference in a Gondorian work about the Rohirrim to a Lord of the Éothéod, Fram, who was killed by dwarves over a dispute regarding the dragon Scatha's hoard. He marked that one as of special interest and set it aside.

It seemed no time at all had passed, indeed, the sun still poured through the chinks of glass in the ceiling, when he heard the tread of feet. Looking up from what was proving to be an unhelpful book of Sindarin poetry, wherein a rather self-important poet distinguished his own love of silver _from_ a dragon's love of gold, Bilbo espied Thorin walking toward him.

"Oh, Thorin! So soon? I only have a few promising leads. You know, we should have brought our packs with us; it makes far more sense to set up camp here as we work, and…my goodness, I imagine you must be hungry! I had completely forgotten in the excitement. I should have at least sent you along with a few of those apples; what in the world was I thinking? Thorin…Thorin?" Bilbo trailed off, for Thorin was hunched over and shivering within his cloak.

"Bilbo?" Thorin said as if coming out of a dream. "How are you here?"

The dwarf was drawn and pale, not just from the graying effect of the curse, and he flinched when Bilbo moved. Bilbo set aside the scroll and slowly stood, approaching Thorin with his hands open and visible, as if he were a wild animal that might bolt.

"I'm here to help you. We came to the library looking for a cure, remember?" Thorin met Bilbo's eye. The blue glow was back and stronger than ever, washing his cheeks in a ghostly light. While the black scars had grown no worse, a greater swath of the skin visible beneath his cloak had taken on the grayish hue that preceded the emergence of scales.

"I have to go back," Thorin said in a hiss. Bilbo realized with a start that the hiss was because Thorin's teeth were chattering so hard he could barely speak, though sweat glinted on his brow.

"Fine, fine, we'll go back, just let me put these away. Did you manage to find anything in your section?" But Thorin was already moving past him, towards the door. With a muttered curse, Bilbo blew out the candles, leaving them on the floor, and tossed the most promising books and scrolls into the pack. He winced at their ill treatment, but if Thorin got out of his sight he might not be able to find his way back to their camp. Once packed, Bilbo took off after Thorin, bare feet slapping against the polished stone as he ran. For all that Thorin was only going at a brisk walk, his stride was longer than Bilbo's and he had nearly vanished out the crumbling door before Bilbo caught up to him.

Thorin seemed not to notice he was there, neither pausing nor acknowledging Bilbo at all as he drew alongside, and no attempt to get his attention succeeded. For a long stretch there was only silence and a clicking sound that Bilbo soon realized were the hooked talons that had sprouted in place of Thorin's toenails. For some reason, that was the most unsettling part of it all. The scales, the glowing eyes, even the fire Bilbo had been able to take in stride. Perhaps because, all things considered, it rather resembled a bizarre bout of the flu. Bilbo had tended the ill before: discolored skin and vomiting were all part of the unpleasant package.

But to see Thorin without his heavy boots, his feet so pale and delicate compared to those of hobbits? And then to see them end in dark talons that clicked upon the ground with every step? The combination of the unseen with the unbelievable twisted Bilbo's gut and somewhere higher in what felt like heartbreak. It was wrong, terribly wrong, to see Thorin so exposed and yet so twisted beyond recognition at the same time.

It struck Bilbo then, all at once, what he had been trying to avoid thinking about since he first came down into Erebor: the horrible, aching pit of worry and fear that opened inside him when he first saw Thorin like this. To see him trapped in a prison of his own body, that final place of refuge stolen from him… it was almost more than he could bear. He felt sick at the sight, somehow worse even than the rage in Thorin's eyes on the wall, when Bilbo had looked at him and seen no trace of the person he knew.

They burst into the treasure chamber, and Thorin slouched against the doorframe with a groan of relief at the sight of the gold and gems reflecting the light back a thousand times. It was like the moment at the hidden door all over again, when the very sight and smell of Erebor bled years of tension from Thorin all at once. Yet even while this moment appeared as fair, it felt foul. The sight of the treasure eased Thorin, but as it did something predatory came over him. He moved forward with the powerful, slinking motions of a stalking cat as he descended the stairs and stepped out onto the dunes of gold, climbing them with surprising stealth. Bilbo bit his lip, torn between following straightaways after Thorin and returning to their campsite, from where he might be able to survey the whole room.

His heart won out over his head, and he took off after Thorin. Bilbo scrambled over gold and around fallen pillars as he stumbled after the dwarf, who moved over the treasure as if it were no more shifting or treacherous than the stone floor. Thorin seemed to have some destination in mind, for he moved straight and sure.

"Oh for pity's…!" Bilbo cried, thinking the dwarf had given him the slip as Thorin mounted the top of one of the steeper piles and vanished. But when Bilbo managed to climb the top of the dune himself, he looked down to see a crater that had formed amongst the gold. In that moment, he recalled when Smaug had awakened, and the great bowl left when he dragged his bulk free of the treasure. This may well be the same place, for Bilbo recognized some angles of the room from that vantage point, made sharp in his memory by the terror he had felt on seeing a great yellow eye peering at him from under the hoard.

Thorin was at the center of the crater, fallen to all fours. His hands were drawn into fists, gold coins spilling out from between his fingers, and his chest heaved as if from some great exertion. With some care, Bilbo set himself on the lip of the crater and skidded down on his heels, coins pinging off one another as he slid.

Thorin looked up at his arrival. The tension was gone from his bearing, the harsh lines of his face smoothed. A beatific smile spread across his lips and had Bilbo not known any better, he would have said Thorin was drunk, or drugged. The sight was wholly unsettling; for Bilbo had never seen Thorin breach that tight control he kept over himself, always remaining sober and aloof even while the rest of the company drank and made merry.

"Do you feel it, Halfling?" Thorin purred.

"I would thank you to stop calling me that. My name will do well enough," Bilbo grumbled, but anxiety surged through him as he looked about the crater. There was indeed a feeling here, a miasma. He felt a flush rising to his cheeks, but not a pleasant one. It was a feeling like sitting too close to a stove, as if the gold itself radiated heat.

"It is warm here." Thorin sighed, sweeping his hands over the coins. They jingled against one another as he did so, and Thorin smiled at the sound.

"I imagine it is. After all, if I don't miss my guess," Bilbo said, with another exaggerated look around the crater, "this is where Smaug slept. We should move away from here. I think this place may be cursed."

Thorin's eyes narrowed and the smile fell. "Move away?"

"Well, I once heard that the gold of a dragon's bed may carry," Thorin fixed him with so ferocious a glare that Bilbo's voice trembled and he nearly sputtered over his words, "many fell enchantments."

"I will not _abandon_ the gold of my forefathers," Thorin said, and something snapped in Bilbo.

"But this _isn't_ the gold of your forefathers!" Bilbo hissed, and pointed at their feet. "It's gold that has sat under the belly of a dragon for over a hundred years. It's the reason you're turning into a _monster_!"

The words hung in the air between them, gone beyond recall. And Thorin looked at him, as if seeing him now for the first time, as if something had clicked back into place within him. He stared about with some bewilderment, as if not knowing where he was, and Bilbo could see with rising panic as his words filtered into Thorin's consciousness. _Monster_.

"I-I'm sorry, Thorin, I didn't mean…"

"But it's true," Thorin said. Bilbo could have kicked himself then then because he had finally wandered right into it, blabbing aloud what they had both been so carefully avoiding this past day. For naming it only made it so much worse, it dropped all pretenses that this was a simple malady that could be cured. A _monster_?

"You are afraid of me. There is no need to disguise it," Thorin continued. Bilbo's face fell, and in him keened that screaming kettle feeling, that Thorin was slipping away from him and would soon retreat into himself beyond recall, and all his locked-up words came out in a rush.

"Of course I'm afraid! You've got bloody great talons at the end of your fingers, and you spit fire when you're angry, _literally_ now! It was only luck that you didn't roast me up or tear me to pieces when I walked in the door!" But Thorin was withdrawing into himself with every word and it all broke upon Bilbo at once: in his fright he was babbling all the wrong things. He stopped, and took a deep breath, then crouched down so that he was facing Thorin on the same level. He stilled his breath and forced his voice to softness. The truth, just the truth, that's what was needed here. "But… but more than any of that, I'm afraid _for_ you, Thorin. How could I not be?"

"A simple matter," Thorin said, without meeting Bilbo's probing look. "You could leave this place, return to your home and think nothing further of it. It would be the better option, when there is no hope."

Bilbo thought he might become frantic with frustration then, that they must rehash this argument of whether he should stay or go, that he must have yet another face-off with Thorin's stubbornness, only now when he has said something truly unforgivable. Then he caught himself. The growl in Thorin's voice that he had taken for anger, leveled at him again but this time for good reason, had an edge to it that was wholly unfamiliar. He looked closer at Thorin and saw then the tremble in his jaw, the way his hands opened and closed compulsively around the gold in a self-comforting gesture, the tiny shivers that wracked him. Bilbo's heart sank as the picture came together in a flash of insight.

This was not about him, not even about what he had said. Bilbo had touched on something deeper, something that was tearing Thorin apart from the inside, and as usual Thorin was trying to hide it beneath that stoic veneer rather than simply _ask_ for help. Bilbo settled fully onto the ground, and edged closer. "Thorin, what happened in the library?"

"You cannot possibly understand," Thorin said, but there was no scorn in his voice, only anguish, and desperation.

"Just tell me," Bilbo said soothingly. "I promise I will believe you."

Thorin released an explosive gasp that ended in a shudder. He pressed a hand to his temple, looking away as he gathered his composure, and Bilbo saw that if Thorin had any calm left it hung by a thread, and that was fraying. "How can you when I do not believe it myself? I… saw things. Heard things. I…Bilbo." Thorin looked up, eyes wide with naked terror. "I think I'm losing my mind."

"No. No," Bilbo said automatically, "you're not, it's… just tell me what you saw, all right? We'll just talk this through. There are quite enough strange things happening in this place that we need not jump to conclusions."

"You weren't there," Thorin said, and at first Bilbo thought he meant in the library, which he was about to assure Thorin he most certainly had been, when Thorin continued, as if each word was dragged from his body. "You weren't there, you were somewhere…far away. I could not find you. There was only the mountain, and the gold, and… shadows. I could hear them, across all these years I could hear them screaming in the dark as he broke them and remade them, and I could feel that touch in my mind…"

A chill swept through Bilbo that felt as if all the hair from the back of his neck down to his furry feet stood on end, and his hand went reflexively to the ring in his pocket, though he stilled it quickly. There was no use for invisibility here; how odd that he should seek it at a time like this. He swallowed, and said in as steady and measured a tone as he could manage, "Thorin, this is… a little difficult to follow. I need you to start from the beginning. Who…who was screaming?"

"The Nauglath," Thorin said, and Bilbo's brow crinkled at the unfamiliar word. "This happened to them first, there, in the pits. And they welcomed it. They were weak and he made them strong, even though he broke them, though he _destroyed_ them. It was better than dying in disgrace and poverty, and they knew the end would come whatever they did. But their _rage_…there is no end to it, it will live a thousand-thousand years and what is worse… what is worse…" Thorin gave a shudder that rocked him crown to toe. "_I cannot blame them for it_."

Bilbo tried to keep his bewilderment from his face, for Thorin was agitated, almost maddened by the words he spoke. Yet the hobbit could not follow the thread of Thorin's words at all, save that some great crime had been committed and Thorin sympathized with the wronged party. But all this talk of breaking and dying and rage… it sent a wave of horror through him even as he struggled to understand.

"_They were our kin_," Thorin groaned. "And we did nothing. We turned our back on them while they died in droves, and we can never make amends. Don't you see?" he said, fixing wild eyes on Bilbo. "The sickness of my line is their curse. Without their presence it cannot break us, it only drives us mad with gold sickness. But it waits, it waits in our blood and bone, it _waits_ for them. Then they find us, in our mountains and fortresses, they chase us forth and curse our treasure with their touch. In our wanderings we are made to understand their loss, pursued as they were from place to place. But it's the gold, the gold is where they fulfill their curse, that is where they steal from us the beauty crafted by our hands, as it was stolen from them. That is how they make us like them, like _this_," he cried and pressed one clawed hand against his chest, the curved points biting deep into his graying skin.

Bilbo winced and found he had scooted closer before he even realized what he did, pulling Thorin's hand back from where it dug into his flesh. He gently clasped Thorin's wrist between both hands, keeping the sharp points away from both of them.

"Careful with those," Bilbo murmured absently as his mind whirled, searching for the right words for so delicate a situation. "Now Thorin, please, you must calm down. This is…this is good. I think. What you're saying is that you now know the source of this?" Bilbo said, tapping at the scales that ran up Thorin's hand. "That's very good news. Look at me. I know it was terrible, and I'm very sorry it happened. But now that we know what this is, we can start looking for a cure."

Thorin hunched over and would have pulled away entirely if not for Bilbo's hands wrapped around his wrist. "Do you not understand? _There is no cure_."

Thorin's words struck Bilbo like a blow to the stomach, rocking him back, but swiftly in its wake came a second wave, one of resolve. "No," he said, and dropped the hand to take Thorin firmly by the shoulders, turning the dwarf to face him. Thorin stilled beneath his touch, some of his anguish giving way to simple surprise. "No, absolutely not. I did not follow you across a thousand leagues of mountains, rivers, goblins, and other nonsense for you to give up here. Do you understand me, Thorin Oakenshield? I simply will not have it." Thorin blinked. "Now, I don't know where you read… whatever it is that has you so upset, and I likely wouldn't understand it if I did. Maybe it's true, maybe it isn't, but it is only the first lead we have and I would be a very poor scholar indeed if I let us take it at face-value."

"Mîm's account is thousands of years old. It is the _only_ account," Thorin said.

"Then there have been thousands of years since for someone to find a cure. Years this Mîm fellow would know nothing about. Why, just look at how few dragons there are in the world. If it really spread as easily as you say, then we should be swarming with them. Mark my words, there is a cure out there somewhere, even in these very halls, and we will find it, or I am not a Baggins."

Thorin stilled at this, considering Bilbo's words. As he did, his breathing eased and was no longer the harsh, frantic beat of a hunted animal. So too did the hard lines of stress in his shoulders ease. A long moment passed until he finally calmed and he said in a soft, halting voice, "Then… let us hope we will not have to find you another name."

Bilbo blinked, mouthing the words back as they clicked into place. He looked at Thorin incredulously and saw that there was the faintest echo of a smile teasing the edge of his lips. The remaining healthy flesh of his face was bathed in sweat, and his whole body bore the frail, transparent quality of one who has not slept in days, but he seemed aware and _present_ for the first time since they parted ways in the library. Bilbo gave his own shaky, joyful chuckle at the sight, but ended it with a fond groan. "Oh, goodness. If you're delirious enough to make jokes than matters truly are worse than I realized."

"Even I know it was a poor one," Thorin admitted, his voice barely above a whisper. His head nodded, and he seemed on the edge of collapse.

"All the same, perhaps it would be best if we rested. It has been a long day for both of us," Bilbo said. He released Thorin's shoulders then, having only just realized he still held them, so natural did it seem to hold Thorin steady when he was afraid. Surely it was a thought he would have found shocking only a few months prior. Bilbo rose to his feet, offering his hand to Thorin. "Not here though, if it's all the same to you. I rather miss our warm little campfire, and I'd hate to leave the food unattended any longer."

"As if there was anyone to steal it. Only you," Thorin said in a worn but bemused voice, "could sit in the middle of the greatest treasury of the world and value food more than hoarded gold."

"My word, sarcasm as well as jokes?" Bilbo said, but Thorin shook his head.

"It was no mockery. There is some… goodness and wisdom in you… that our situation makes all the more clear," Thorin said. He took Bilbo's hand and stood before the little flutter in Bilbo's chest at his words had time to be acknowledged, much less to subside, and Bilbo found himself staring at Thorin longer than might be strictly appropriate. Thorin raised an eyebrow in return and said, "Shall we go?"

"Oh! Yes, but of course!" Bilbo said and, flustered, took off in the wrong direction. He only realized he still held Thorin's wrist when he jerked them both back onto the right course, stammering apologies at the whiplash and saying over his shoulder, "Sorry, sorry! Sense of direction aside, we will find a way out of this, Thorin. Of that I am certain."

His back turned, he did not see as the small, fond smile Thorin had worn at his stammering melt away. If he had, he would have seen the shadow that fell over Thorin's face, and read in it clearly that he did not share Bilbo's certainty.

* * *

Let me be no nearer  
In death's dream kingdom  
Let me also wear  
Such deliberate disguises  
Rat's coat, crowskin, crossed staves

* * *

**Author Note****:** Thank you for reading! Links to the terms discussed in this chapter and the previous one can be found over at the AO3 version of this fic, as they allow links and FFN does not. Also be sure to check out my Tumblr (Avelera. tumblr. com) for news, updates, fanart, etc. for this fic. If you're enjoying it so far, do please take a moment to leave a review. Countless hours of work went into bringing you this story, and all I ask in return is a little feedback from time to time. Thanks again!


	9. Chapter 9

_Nightmares plagued Thorin's sleep. Waves of gold crashed against the rocks of Erebor like a tide, receding from him whenever he moved to touch them. Shadows flitted at the edge of his vision. He saw Fíli and Kíli, their faces drawn and white in death, and when he looked down saw he saw himself in broken armor, torn by many wounds, and the stench of blood in the air. Armies clashed, roaring their defiance as they fell upon one another, and a monstrous, pale figure tore a path through the heart of the mêlée, twisted iron replacing the stump of a hand, and death in his eyes. _

_Thorin's throat dried and his stomach burned. He cried out and thought he heard Bilbo's voice call back but the hobbit was nowhere to be seen, though he sounded near. Then Azog appeared before him and the great mace came crashing down... _

Thorin jerked awake to the smell of fire and burning flesh. Panic seized him by the throat and he wrestled against bindings that trapped his arms to his sides. His head struck the ground as he struggled, finally forcing his eyes open and he looked up to see… the ceiling of Erebor. Thorin tilted his head to the side in puzzlement.

"Ah, you're awake! I was beginning to worry," Bilbo said cheerfully. There was the clink of iron against iron that set off every warning in Thorin's head then—

Bilbo set a plate of sausages beside him.

"I can keep them warm next to the fire if you need a little time to wake up," Bilbo said.

In that moment, Thorin's true position became clear to him. He was wrapped up, true, but in a bedroll, and beneath that his blue cloak had tangled around his arms, and trapped them against his body. The smell of flames came from the iron brazier where Bilbo was currently cooking more food, what looked like sausages thrown together with sliced potatoes, mushrooms, tomatoes and turnips, mixed with some spice he could not identify.

"Wonderful stuff, these coals. Barely had to touch them and they stayed alive all while we slept and well into the day. I just added a few now to get it hot enough for the fry-up," said Bilbo.

"You had to add more?" Thorin said incredulously. "Those coals should have burned unaided half a day. How long have I slept?" For he could not have slept _that_ long, drowsiness still tugged at him. He felt as though he could sleep several more hours simply by closing his eyes.

Bilbo glanced up as he made a quick calculation. "Twelve—maybe fourteen hours?" Thorin's eyes widened. "Almost half the day again has gone since I woke up, but I thought it best to let you sleep. After breakfast, I retraced our steps back to the archives earlier and brought back the rest of the books I had my eye on. I've been reading those most of the day." As he spoke, Bilbo made a flicking motion with his wrist that tossed the chopped vegetables and sausages in the frying pan, then looked at Thorin out of the corner of his eye. "You know, if you've been sleeping like this lately it's no wonder you missed the battle. I've been walking around, banging pots and pans all day and you never stirred. I had to check your breathing a few times to make sure you were still alive."

Thorin grunted and untangled himself from the winding cloth, catching sight of his arms as he pulled them free. The scales had spread no further in the night; though the dead skin had flaked away so the entire top of his forearm was armored. It seemed the sickness had halted, not traveling while he slept as it had the last time.

He propped himself up in his bedroll, sitting cross-legged as he took up the plate from where Bilbo had left it on the floor. The hobbit had given him the lion's share of the meat, but there were some vegetable portions in there as well, tucked underneath as if Bilbo hoped he would not notice. Thorin felt no appetite in any case but shrugged, idly picking over the pieces with his fork before taking his first bite.

Flavor exploded over his tongue: salt, grease and fat, spices of fennel and pepper. His eyes widened and he made short work of the rest of the plate, unable to slow himself for even a moment. His stomach, which he had long ignored and only now realized just how long, felt like an empty pit. For the first time in days, warmth flooded him, and not the warmth of fire or the chemical burn of its alchemy, but a reviving energy that banished the emptiness that had hollowed him since the first days of the itching.

Bilbo watched him as he ate, a fond smile at the edge of his lips, and refilled Thorin's plate without prompting. "Hardly fit for a palace such as this, but winter stores being what they are I did my best to make it palatable. It occurred to me that something hearty would not go amiss: you have not eaten for some time."

Thorin at least remembered himself enough to swallow before he responded, "Winter stores? This may be the finest meal I've ever had."

"Hmph, there you go with the flattery again," Bilbo said, taking some of the leftover vegetables for himself and passing the remainder to Thorin. "We have a saying that hunger is the best sauce. That's probably more to do with the flavor than any craft of my own."

Thorin made a skeptical sound and returned to his meal. His hunger lead him to wonder if there would be enough to satiate it, but the hobbit had judged well enough and there was no lingering want once he finished his plate. He felt he could face the day, even the world, with more vigor. The horror of the previous day was receding from his mind, and even the curse that corrupted his skin no longer seemed insurmountable.

"I fetched us some water as well from those fountains in the hall, so you can go have a wash. Once you're done I'll show you what I found," Bilbo said. "Oh, and I had a thought." He took out a stoppered vial of green glass from the second of the packs, handing it to Thorin.

"What is this?" Thorin said, holding the bottle to the firelight and giving it a shake. It was a clear, viscous liquid, some kind of oil.

"One of Óin's ointments. He labeled it for the treatment of burns and rashes. Once you've cleaned yourself up, you might put some of that on your skin to slow the breakage," said Bilbo.

Thorin's eyebrows rose. "You came remarkably well prepared for your errand."

"Oh, well," Bilbo said, dismissing his words with a wave of his hand. "With you gone so long we didn't know what might have happened, and there are a lot of ways for a body to become injured down here. I'm sure Ga—I'm sure it only made sense to cover all eventualities. I've also got some bandages in here, willow bark tea, wood for splints." He frowned. "None of which are of much use, unless you're suffering a headache?"

"Nothing so severe that I would welcome the taste of willow bark tea," Thorin said dryly.

"That being said, more tea is not so bad an idea, I'll make some up while you wash," Bilbo said, and went to get the kettle from the row of cooking implements he had set up lining the wall as if it were a kitchen shelf.

Thorin took the opportunity to pick up the water bucket, washcloth, oil vial and the soap beside it and had only just reached the top of the stairs when Bilbo's voice came from behind him. "Not down there, Thorin, I'd like to keep an eye on you if at all possible."

Thorin turned, giving Bilbo a frank look as he put down the bucket and unclasped the cloak with one hand. It fluttered to the floor, leaving him bare-chested, and he was rewarded by the sight of the hobbit turning bright red and spinning on his heels with a muffled squeak. Bilbo stared up at the ceiling with his back turned as he said, "The top of the steps will do! Just don't go wandering off."

With a satisfied smirk, Thorin turned back to the staircase. Nevertheless, he accepted Bilbo's request and only went far enough down so that he as out of the hobbit's immediate sight. The gold of the treasury unfurled like a sea below, calling to him, but he turned away, taking a seat and lathering the washcloth with soap and water. Like the hot meal, it was a wonder he had forgotten how good it was to feel clean once again, even if it did mean a sponge bath with frigid water.

Thorin stripped, then sloughed off the dead skin that peeled at the edges of the scales, cleaned his face and released the braids ragged from days of slumber, washing his hair as best he could before re-braiding it. There were bathhouses in Erebor that drew their heat from the forges, and he could not help but think longingly of them. But to go there would mean crossing the sea of gold, and it was unlikely in any case that the plumbing was still functioning after all these years. Furthermore, revitalized as he was by food and rest, he had to admit that he had made a promise to Bilbo. To go back on it for so trivial a reason would be unfair to one who had already done much for him.

Thorin finished his washing, putting back on the smallclothes and loose black trousers that were the only fabric he could bear to have against his peeling skin, when he recalled the vial of Óin's ointment. He poured an experimental drop into his hand and instantly felt its cooling effects, the scent of mint biting and sharp in the air. Perhaps treating his skin thus would slow the breakage, perhaps it would not, but at least its touch was soothing. He rubbed the oil into the seam between scales and skin, his face, arms, chest, and feet, and the cool liquid brought instant relief to his heated flesh.

Only when he finished the spots he could reach and the bottle was half empty did he realize he had a slight problem. Thorin probed the back of his neck, feeling the hard ridges that went down his spine. He still had no idea how bad the damage was on his back, and flinched at the memory of when he first awoke, and the awful tearing sound.

When Bilbo arrived, the hobbit's horror had been instant at the sight of Thorin's shirtless form. He had gone from pale to bright red, babbling as he burrowed through his pack to find Thorin the blue cloak he wore now. As a result, Thorin had given the hobbit no time to see or comment on the damage to his back, and ever since had hidden it behind the cloak. There was really only one thing for it, though his stomach churned strangely at the thought of Bilbo probing at his his ruined flesh. Thorin collected the bucket, vial and washcloth, and mounted the steps back to the campsite.

Bilbo was sitting cross-legged by the fire, his chin propped up on one hand as he read over a scroll draped on his opposite knee. The plates were cleaned and stacked beside him, but he appeared to have paused in the middle of making the tea and forgotten all about it as he became engrossed in the text. His eyebrows were drawn together, and one of his furred feet tapped rhythmically against the floor as his eyes scanned the paper. With a sigh he put the scroll aside, rolling it up with great care before selecting another from the stack.

Thorin paused, arrested by the sight, and withdrew into the shadows beyond the firelight. There was something calming about watching Bilbo read, something he did not wish to lose so quickly. Often Bilbo had a frantic energy to him that Thorin had taken for fussiness, but in retrospect may have been simple anxiety as he adjusted, day after day, to tasks at which he had little familiarity. It had been frustrating at first for him to deal with one who had such poor skills at living on the road, it had not occurred to Thorin at the time that Bilbo may have no training _at all_, and was in fact a very fast learner, picking up what was needed to be at least mediocre in a remarkably short time.

Yet with books Bilbo was, as he had said, in his element, and it showed in the air of calm that surrounded him now. For the first time since he sat at the heart of the treasure, Thorin felt a strange sort of… warmth fill him, that was nothing like that which came from the gold. It calmed him and, in the quiet of his mind, he thought that he might watch the hobbit read for many hours and not grow restless.

As he watched, Thorin's mind drifted back to the early days of their acquaintance, and he wondered if the hobbit knew what power he wielded over the company and their quest. That he was was the fourteenth member, the luck of the party. When Thorin had asked Gandalf to find such a one, only to be presented a _hobbit_, and on who appeared so weak, so frankly ridiculous, it had been a slap in the face. Thorin knew he held the hearts of the company by a thread, that the entire journey was like staring into the sun, damaging, doomed, and over the moment one of them blinked. But Gandalf, curse him, would not be swayed even though his "burglar's" heart seemed so fragile with homesickness that there was no hope of him making it out of his sleepy little village, let alone across the wide world. What was worse, if Bilbo fell he would act as a domino, raising doubts in those who had their own homes to think of, their own families, who would again look at the odds and find them wanting. Thorin could clearly imagine the little burglar disappearing in a huff, and the ties that bound the company failing behind him. And for what? Why risk all on a wizard's say-so, on a lucky number?

So he had pushed the burglar, spurned him, pointed out his flaws for all to see, _dared_ him to abandon the quest. For the moment would inevitably come when Bilbo would leave. Let the others see that it was the frailty of hobbits, not the value of Erebor, that caused his heart to fail.

Then Bilbo had left as predicted, or tried to, if not for Bofur, and Thorin had not known why he felt only shame at the thought that he had caused this, that he had driven their luck away. But sure enough Bilbo vanished in the ensuing chaos and Thorin ahd cursed his own sense of shame, that he had allowed that little hope in for even a moment, a glimpse of the very disappointment he had tried to forestall. For they were a doomed party, hollow, pushed forward by fire and hatred and a desperate, painful longing to face the greatest calamity of their age. They had only a fool's hope of survival, let alone success, and yet they forged on, defying the very laws of nature, flying and daring not to look down lest they inevitably fall.

Then Bilbo had stayed. Leapt out from behind a tree when only a moment before Thorin had cursed him. He could not help but have heard Thorin's words, certainly Thorin heard his after. How, wonder of wonders, he would stay. Not for treasure or power or fame, only because he was homesick and he wished to end the homesickness in Thorin's company, in his people… and in Thorin.

In that moment Thorin saw what it truly meant to have luck with them, for that terrible blistering hope came back ten times over, and he saw a quest not running on hollow hopes and empty longing, but honor and faith and loyalty. All those things he had dreamed of, all that had been denied them by their allies and by their own kin. And this…burglar, this frustrating impossible _hobbit_ had brought it to them? It was almost unimportant after that how Bilbo defended him with sword and body against Azog. Thorin was lost. He was lost to the vision of hope gifted to him by a stranger, one who wanted nothing for himself, who only saw a wrong that must be righted, who saw Thorin's people and loved them as he did and would work to protect and aid them. To whom he was not even a king to command loyalty, only a friend in need.

How and when had that changed in Thorin's mind? His brow crinkled as watched Bilbo bent over the scroll. The firelight caught the mithril shirt Bilbo wore under his blue coat, the one Thorin had gifted him so that he may be safe from harm. He had not counted on the harm Bilbo would bring to himself, or that he… He frowned, for that niggling annoyance that so easily turned to rage was back in the corner of his mind. It whispered that Bilbo had deserved it, that Thorin would have done the same to _anyone_ who stole from him, as was his right as king. But to dangle Bilbo over a cliff, over certain death? It seemed…extreme. And that shame was back, the shame he had felt when Bilbo had almost turned back to Rivendell. After all Bilbo had done for Thorin, and for his people, why had he leapt so quickly to such terrible rage? Why had he….?

Thorin lowered the pail to the ground, and pressed his freed hand to his temple. He wondered if a storm had kicked up beyond the hidden door, for there was the distant rushing sound like a blast of wind, like a distant hurricane, and he could not pinpoint its source. He squinted against the distant pounding sound of the wind, pressing his hand to his face and feeling the intense, feverish heat that built there, and as he did he looked at the hobbit. The rushing sound dimmed in his ears.

Bilbo had not shifted, did not even seem aware of the wider world while he read. He was utterly engrossed by the search for Thorin's cure, still bearing hope even when Thorin had all but collapsed into despair. Bilbo had easily dismissed his fears with logic and kindness, helped him to his bedroll and done everything short of tuck him in before seeking rest himself. Even now he did not seem the least perturbed to be alone in a kingdom of ghosts, alongside one who had almost killed him.

Bilbo read fast, his lips drawn to a thin, unmoving line as he did so. Silent reading, the mark of a scholar. He must have learned from early childhood to have mastered the art. His shoulders were relaxed as he lounged, as perhaps he had many nights back in his home in the Shire. He would need only his pipe to complete the picture, as he had so often related on their journey, and no sooner had Thorin thought this than Bilbo patted his breast pocket, then turned to look through the pack.

It was then that Bilbo espied Thorin. And as he did, the rushing died entirely, the pounding sound fading to silence, and once again Thorin remembered that he stood at the edge of the firelight like a recalcitrant child. He suddenly felt rather foolish to be caught watching Bilbo thus, and he quickly picked up his pail and stepped from the shadows as if nothing had happened. "I'm afraid I must beg a favor, Bilbo."

Bilbo opened his mouth and Thorin waited patiently for his reply. Yet no sound came out but a strangled squeak. That deep red blush was back, staining his cheeks and travelling down to his collar, but then Bilbo was sitting closer to the fire in order to better read by its light, which could be the only explanation.

With a pang of realization, Thorin looked down at his exposed torso, covered as it was in foul black scales. So far the scales had not interfered with the hair on his body— neither his beard, the hair on his chest, nor the trail between navel and groin. There was no telling how much longer that would be true, before muscle and sinew broke and twisted into reptilian form and the transformation robbed him of all signs he was ever a dwarf. The thought alone brought a rush of humiliation, and with an inarticulate mumble he snatched up the cloak from the ground where he had dropped it before his bath and draped it over his arm. He considered tossing it back over his shoulders then and there, to retreat once more into the shadow of its fold, only to be reminded by the flash of firelight on scales of the necessity of his request.

He took a deep breath, and steeled himself, ignoring how Bilbo's eyes traveled up and down a body that no doubt repulsed him. Thorin cleared his throat, "The corruption is spreading. I've treated it with the ointment where I could, but I must beg your assistance in the places beyond my reach."

"Excuse me, _where_?" Bilbo said in a strangled yelp as he jerked his eyes from Thorin's chest to his face.

Thorin frowned. "My back? If you would please check for any damage there, it would be a kindness."

"Oh…oh! Your back, but of course!" Bilbo said. The scroll fell from his lap as he jumped to his feet. Thorin mentally retracted the thought that Bilbo was no longer so nervous as he had once been. The hobbit was positively twitchy now, tapping his fingertips together and looking at every part of the room except where Thorin stood in front of him.

Best to get the ordeal over with, for he did not like to admit even to himself the sick feeling that curled in his stomach at the thought that Bilbo could not even look at him without his cloak. Thorin nodded his thanks and knelt down beside the fire, angling the light to his back. He closed his eyes and tried to lose himself in the play of its warmth on his skin, for a chill had followed him of late when he did not lie at the heart of the treasure. What was worse, nerves at how Bilbo saw him now had chased away the pleasant glow of earlier.

Then he heard the sharp intake of breath from behind him.

Thorin's spine went rigid and he gritted his teeth against the image of Bilbo recoiling in horror from what he saw. There was no pain, so it could not be a wound that caused such a reaction, only whatever fell transformation the curse had wrought. "Stop. It's not important, I should not have troubled you," Thorin said and began to rise.

"Oh, no you don't!" Bilbo said, and seized Thorin by the shoulder, shoving him back down.

Thorin shivered as a gentle touch traced the back of his neck and he felt Bilbo's fingers brushing his hair, gathering it up, and then carefully laying it over his shoulder. Then the light touch moved again, probing Thorin's side, and he jerked away with a hiss.

"Would you stop that?" Bilbo snapped. Then Bilbo sighed and said, "I'm sorry, it's just… There's a lot going on here, Thorin, and it's worse than I thought."

"How bad?" Thorin said, as a wash of cold wash of dread swept through him.

"Do you feel that?" Thorin waited. There was nothing, no brush of air or pressure of touch. He shook his head.

"I was afraid of that," Bilbo said. "The scales are much thicker back here." Thorin heard a tapping sound. "Do you hear that? There's a raised ridge over your spine, and scales to either side of it are hard as rocks. It's all segmented, which may be why you can still stand as usual. It stops right here," Thorin felt a light touch against the base of his neck, then Bilbo traced a narrow oval on either side of the spine from shoulder blade to hip. "The pattern is shaped a bit like a cat's eye, the scales cover you from your neck to your, uh, lower back. No wonder you couldn't see it." Bilbo paused, his hands resting on Thorin's hips. "There are no other injuries as such, though I imagine there wouldn't be. You might as well be wearing armor."

"Thank you," Thorin murmured and exhaled. He closed his eyes and covered them with one shaking hand as he imagined the transformation Bilbo described.

There was a quiet _plink_ and the gentle touch returned. The scent of mint filled the air and a pleasant chill spread across the edges of Thorin's back. It took him a moment to realize that Bilbo was applying the ointment to the seams between skin and scales. "There's no need," Thorin protested.

"Please," Bilbo said, cutting him off, and Thorin stilled at the pleading in his voice. "Just…let me do what I can."

Thorin subsided, sitting in silence as Bilbo spread the ointment over his skin. He could feel Bilbo's breath stir at the back of his neck, and shivered more at that than the cool touch of the ointment. Even if the ointment did nothing it was…pleasant, to feel another's hand after weeks—no, _months_ of the road, of isolation and command, of keeping himself aloof and clear-headed throughout the quest. More than pleasant, he all but melted at the touch, losing himself in the quiet minutes that passed between them, in how good it felt to simply be touched, in forgetting for a little while the reason for it. His mind drifted into vague imaginings that there was another reason, a happier one, for the gentle brush of hands over his shoulders, trailing down the back of his neck and along his sides. He sighed when it ended, inhaling the scent of mint that hung thick in the air. Bilbo stoppered the bottle, excusing himself with a murmur as he went to wash the oil from his hands.

Thorin opened his eyes slowly, only to be hit with the jarring reality. He snatched up the blue cloak from where it lay on the ground beside him, tossing it back over his shoulders, and by the time Bilbo returned he had pulled the hood up to shadow his face. "My apologies again that you had to see that," Thorin said without turning to look at Bilbo.

Bilbo harrumphed from behind him. "Well, I'm afraid I cannot accept that." Thorin's stomach dropped and he looked resolutely forward, unwilling to meet the hobbit's eyes. Little good it did him, as Bilbo walked around to face Thorin with his arms crossed. A scroll dangled from one hand. At the sight of Thorin's closed expression Bilbo rolled his eyes and sat down across from him. "Call it what you will, but the fact is that you are ill, Thorin. I can no more blame you for this illness than I could if you caught a fever. And if I refuse to forgive you it is because there is nothing to forgive, at least not when it comes to this."

Something unknotted in Thorin's chest at Bilbo's words and he gave a slight nod of acknowledgement. Though in his heart he could not find that he agreed he was…grateful, for the thought.

"Now, if you're ready," Bilbo continued, unraveling the scroll and placing it on the ground between them. "This to me seems the most promising text, since it's the only one that carries _any_ mention of dwarves."

"Trust the Elves to have no care for the history or the suffering of my people," Thorin said with a grimace.

"Well excuse _me_, I only got through one shelf before you went tearing out of there," said Bilbo. "But you're right, they are mostly Elvish texts, so it's Gondolin this, and Túrin that, everywhere you look. Now, are you going to listen to what I found or should I just get comfortable while you go off on another rant about the elves?"

Thorin was preparing to do just that when he caught himself, or rather caught what Bilbo had said. "Do I really spend so much time talking about them?"

"To put it mildly? If you wrote as much as you talked, you'd already have several volumes on the subject. Indeed, if I hadn't met any elves along our journey I would have assumed they were worse than orcs by your account."

"And who is to say they aren't?" Thorin said. Bilbo openly gaped, then caught sight of the tiny smirk at the edge Thorin's lips.

"Remember what I said about how you might have charged the elves instead of the orcs had you been at the battle? I take it back: it's not a possibility, it's a certainty." Bilbo laughed. "And if I didn't know any better, I would say you made another joke just then. You know how I feel about those, I'm not sure my heart can take the shock any further."

"Then it was clearly your imagination," Thorin said loftily, and turned the scroll around so that he could see the Westron letters right-side up. "Nevertheless, talking of elves seems a habit I must break. They do not warrant the breath it takes to name them."

Bilbo gave an exasperated chuckle, and leaned over the scroll. "Oh I don't know; I may even miss it. Without elves to complain about you may never speak again." Thorin snorted and with a grin Bilbo inclined his head and pointed to the scroll.

"Fortunately, this account has nothing to do with elves, rather it deals with a Lord of the Éothéod, by the name of Fram. Apparently he made a deal with some dwarves to hunt a dragon called Scatha."

"I know of Fram," Thorin interrupted. "We have another name for him, one he shares with Thingol, for those who refuse to pay the agreed price."

"Elves again," Bilbo muttered under his breath, then said louder, "And what word would that be?"

Thorin shook his head. "I cannot teach it to you. Suffice to say it is not a pleasant one. To bear such a name is to be marked for death by any dwarf who comes upon him."

"Well, that does make sense," Bilbo said, tapping a paragraph. "They dealt with him quickly enough. Fram and the dwarves agreed he would turn the hoard over to them once the dragon was dead, instead he gave them a necklace of Scatha's teeth. They killed him soon thereafter."

Thorin gave a grim chuckle. "He should have expected no less. None may be allowed to give such insult and live to tell of it. But what does this have to do finding a cure?"

"I was thinking," Bilbo said, "that maybe it had something to do with the teeth? If perhaps it was this…dragon sickness, for lack of a better word, that drove Fram mad enough to deny the dwarves their pay?"

"Even if that were true, there is still no reason to believe that the race of Men suffers from this curse as we do. And if they did, why would you think it the teeth and not the gold itself?" Thorin said, frowning.

"Because if that's the case there's not much we can do other than to take the entire hoard and toss it down the nearest mine shaft, either that or wall it off until the corruption fades," Bilbo said. Thorin's eyes widened, his breath froze in his throat and his whole body seized as if he had been stabbed. "And since I gather that's not a solution you would find acceptable, I began looking for other possibilities."

"Then you are not a hopeless judge of character," Thorin said once he caught his breath, though his heart still hammered in his chest at the mere _thought_ of destroying all the great works in the room with them. He took a second to collect himself before continuing, "Yet even if the curse could pass to Fram, he only acted as a dragon, he did not become one."

"Who is to say?" Bilbo said. "Perhaps he was killed too quickly for anyone to find out. Before you… found me in the library, I was thinking that there might be a curse put on whoever kills the dragon. But that cannot be true, otherwise it would have fallen upon Bard. So if we assume Fram was suffering the earlier stages: irrational acts, overwhelming greed, hoarding the treasure to himself, and…" Bilbo trailed off then slowly, as if he could not stop himself, his gazed climbed to Thorin's face.

"Go on," Thorin said flatly.

Bilbo cleared his throat. "Uh, that is, if we take Fram as a possible example, then the teeth he carried with him might have had some impact on his behavior when he went to the dwarves. If there was an enchantment, it didn't lift when he distanced himself from the treasure. So maybe it wasn't the gold itself, but something that was in the gold?"

"Then you believe there may be something, some piece of Smaug that remains, and exudes the disease?" Thorin said. He considered this. After all, that a physical piece of the dragon was what ultimately corrupted the gold did not necessarily contradict Mîm's account. And there was the possibility that Bilbo was right earlier when he said that Mîm may not fully know or understand all aspects of the curse, for by his own admission he had not been in the pits of the Angband when the first dragon came forth.

Bilbo shrugged. "Smaug lived here for over a century, there could well be bits of him still lying about, teeth and toenail clippings. I should imagine every piece of that creature would be foul with magic."

"So we find it where it lies and destroy it," Thorin said. He found the idea…intriguing. Warmed by the food he had eaten, washed and feeling _himself_ for the first time in days—weeks really, since they had first entered by the hidden door— he found himself nodding at the possibility as he leaned in closer to Bilbo.

"Yes," Bilbo said. "And if that doesn't work, we go to Gandalf for help."

"Gandalf again," Thorin muttered. "I have already said I will have no dealings with that charlatan."

"If we destroy this piece of Smaug and nothing happens, then we'll be right back where we started," Bilbo said impatiently. "Unless you've got a better idea, this is where I put my foot down." Bilbo tilted his chin up and looked Thorin in the eye, as if daring to be contradicted.

"Then perhaps I should be clearer: I will _not_ go to Gandalf for aid ever again," Thorin said.

"Well I'm open to suggestions." Bilbo spread his hands wide. "Anything at all, and we'll try it." Thorin met his gaze with stony silence. "Thorin," Bilbo continued, dropping his voice lower and leaning in, "this is serious. How long do you think it will be before this is irreversible? We only have one shot at doing it your way, and even this may take too long. I understand your misgivings about Gandalf, I really do." He didn't, to Thorin's ears. "But it's only fair that if we try it your way first we must next try it mine."

"I do not recall this being a negotiation," Thorin growled.

"It must be, as far as I'm concerned, or we've no hope of working together at all. I may not be a dwarf to kill people who break bargains with me, I'd have no relatives left if I did, but let me promise you that if you go back on this I will be _quite _upset with you."

"And if I do not agree at all?" Thorin said. That twisting anger was waking, surging through his veins like living flame.

"It's this or I fetch Gandalf right now, Thorin. I am a hobbit, not one of your subjects, and if I'm still here it's out of friendship. I—"

Thorin's claws flexed, and Bilbo's head moved slowly as he turned to look down at them. It would be an easy thing to do, to be sure he would never leave this hall carrying tales…Thorin saw flashes of blood so clear he could taste it. Revulsion followed closed behind.

"Very well, I agree to your terms," Thorin said quickly, and the anger flashed again but this time he pushed it ruthlessly aside. The image played still at the back of his mind, of silencing Bilbo forever and walling the last passage up against intruders. The image rode on anger that refused to be suppressed, that resisted as he tried to bury it. He could not recall being so easily enraged before the quest, but then there had been less at stake. Or not, another portion of his mind reminded him, there had been many more worries in Ered Luin, and in their exile, but now it felt like every day was a gamble, there was still so much at stake and there was….

His life, and Bilbo's life. What else was there? It was simple, the world narrowed to two beating hearts. And for the first time it occurred to Thorin what terrible danger Bilbo had risked in coming here, as he tasted the memory of blood in his mouth, hot and coppery, and set his teeth against it. What did it matter that he did not think Bilbo's plan would work? What choice did he have if that were true, save to end it all or throw himself on the mercy of his enemies?

It may have been worth it in any case for the look of relief that dawned over Bilbo's face, along with a slow smile. Shame flooded Thorin, biting and sharp, and so hard that he had to look down because he could not bear to look Bilbo in the eye, and see the hobbit's simple happiness that he be _allowed_ to help, when Thorin had done nothing but curse Bilbo and nearly kill him.

"Bilbo, there is something I must tell you," Thorin said. Bilbo perked up, looking at Thorin askance. Thorin's heart thundered in his ears and he exhaled to release the last of his nerves at what he was to say. It was a horrifying thought, and part of him rebelled at the very idea of it, at all which it entailed, but the possibility had plagued him since the first day of the itching. He paused to slide the scroll away as he gathered his words, and moved closer to Bilbo. "I think— I _fear_ this illness may have begun some time ago. When we first entered the mountain."

Bilbo's breath left him in a rush. "Thorin, even if it's been that long it doesn't mean there isn't a cure."

Thorin shook his head. "That is not my meaning. I recognize now that my behavior since then has been…erratic; my treatment of you and the others has not been… as I would have wished it to be. I thought only that it was the effects of seeing my home once more, of having all so close within my grasp, and so I did not check myself, did not recognize it as I should have for—for the illness of my line.

I do not say this to excuse myself, or because I believe I can change it now. I think… it will only get worse as this progresses, for I cannot say always what is my own will and what is not. I know only that every day it becomes stronger, and there may soon be a time when I can no longer pull myself back from this brink. Where I began, or how the intentions I had when we first set out for our home became so confused in the taking of it, is lost to me. I am adrift, so far from where I once was that if there is a way back I no longer see it."

Bilbo opened his mouth to protest but Thorin held up a hand to silence him, and finally looked up, giving a pleading look. "I have already asked too much of you, taken you far from your home and threatened your life through my choices and by my own hand. I have no right to ask more, but I do not know how this will end, even if you are right and we find a cure, my behavior may grow worse before then. Much worse. So all I can do is beg you to understand: this is not who I am. This is not who I wish to be. If all fails please, remember that, and remember me as I once was. Not this. Not how I have acted since we entered here, or what I have done to you since then." Thorin released a shuddering sigh. "I know it is a great deal to ask, and it would be well within your right to refuse—"

Thorin was cut off by impact, enough that were he not braced he might have toppled over. Stunned, he looked down to see Bilbo's arms wrapped around him, his face buried in the crook of Thorin's neck, scales and all, for Thorin's stomach twisted at the thought of Bilbo pressed close to the corruption of his flesh, and he moved to disentangle him, but his clawed fingers hovered over Bilbo's shoulders, hesitating.

Bilbo's arms tightened around him, and Thorin stiffened as he felt dampness against his throat. Bilbo held on for a long, silent moment that was punctuated only by the hobbit's erratic breathing. Then as if sensing Thorin's shock, Bilbo gave a shaky, tearful laugh, "I'm sorry," his grip loosened. "I suppose I've been a bit on edge myself. These past weeks have been quite stressful, and I just mean I… of course. Of course I forgive you, Thorin," Bilbo sniffled, fighting to bring his breathing under control as he loosened his grip, and pulled away enough to look down. "I'm sorry, that really was a bit much. I promise I am not usually so… so… Anyway, forgive me, I know you do not like to be touched," Bilbo said, and moved to pull away.

Something like panic welled up in Thorin's heart, for he felt Bilbo tremble against him as he withdrew, could feel the reluctance with which he did so in the stiffness of his arm and the way his fingers trailed along Thorin's arm. It struck him like a bolt through the heart just how much he had misjudged Bilbo. That he may not be disgusted by the change, but merely respecting Thorin's space, while feeling as isolated and cut off as Thorin himself. That Thorin in turn had denied him the comfort and reassurance that Bilbo had so freely granted him. He remembered Bilbo's words, that it would have been nice to hear praise from time to time, to be thanked or acknowledged for his deeds. Thorin marveled that he had not seen it sooner: that he had failed to do something so simple as show Bilbo that he was wanted and appreciated. The entire realization passed through him between one breath and the next.

On its heels came a wave of desperation, knowing he could never put it all into words, and with that desperation in his heart, Thorin seized Bilbo before he could pull away and dragged him close. Bilbo started, but Thorin must have guessed aright for Bilbo melted against him, clutching him in return. After a moment his trembling slowed, then ceased altogether.

For a long time they only held one another, as if touch alone could anchor them in place, in this moment where there was still a glimpse of light. For beyond it, as far as Thorin could see, was only darkness.

* * *

In a field  
Behaving as the wind behaves  
No nearer—

Not that final meeting  
In the twilight kingdom

* * *

**Author Note: **Thank you for reading! You can find more extensive historical notes over on the AO3 posting of this story, and tons of fun material about the story and what inspired it over on my Tumblr.

If you can, please take a moment to leave a little note about your thoughts. This may be my favorite chapter of the story thus far, and I'd be really delighted to know what you think.


	10. Chapter 10

"You can let go now, if you like," a muffled voice said against Thorin's neck and he thought, to his own pleasant surprise, that he would _not_ like to at all and demonstrated this fact by drawing the hobbit closer against him, him burying his face in his curls and breathing him in: tea and pipeweed and good earth, overwhelmed by the scent of mint that still radiated from his own skin. Bilbo sighed and relaxed against him and for a moment there was only heartbeats meeting in time, and warmth all around that banishes the cold and the loneliness of a dead city.

"Much as I'd like to stay here forever," Bilbo continued. "I am having a bit of trouble breathing."

Thorin started, and loosened a bit the death-grip with which he had clutched Bilbo to his chest. The hobbit gasped for air, albeit a bit theatrically, and gave him a wry grin as his face reemerged. It was flushed and warm and relieved, as if the last of the tension that had stood between them, that kept Bilbo separate as if by a layer of glass, had finally melted away. His hand fell to Thorin's hip but did not stray from there and for a moment they only knelt beside each other and gave a sort of huff of relief, as if a great thunderstorm had blown through and finally passed on.

Thorin at least felt they could breathe easier now, and what with the watershed moment and the ointment across his skin he felt relaxed to the point of bonelessness. It was a strange feeling, one he had not felt in longer than he could remember, as was the tightness in his face which it took a moment for him to recognize as a foolish grin. He cleared his throat and straightened his expression, looking down in an attempt to recover some trace of dignity.

"It's just that I thought…" Bilbo hesitated, gesturing towards the gold. "We should get going."

"So soon?" Thorin said, some of the glow dimming within him. He felt better than he had in days and looking out across the gold.

"I'd rather not," Bilbo admitted. "But there's so little time, I'm afraid to linger. We don't, after all, know how much time there really is. Unless… you would like to leave the mountain?"

Thorin thought of the pathway leading down from the hidden door, of the scales revealed in the light of day and his nephews' eyes as he walked into the camp. Nausea rolled through him, so swift and violent that he shook his head as much in denial as to clear the image from his mind before it made him sick. "No, we will continue with your plan."

"For now," Bilbo said, and Thorin furrowed his brow as he gave him a look. "We give it a day, _maybe_ two, but then we try it my way. As we agreed, right Thorin?" Thorin nodded vaguely, trying not to dwell on Bilbo's words, lest it reignite the rage that left the coppery taste of blood in his mouth.

"You know, needn't come with me into the camp," Bilbo said. "I can fetch help on my own. I understand your reservations about all this, even if I do think them a bit misplaced."

"Then I cannot possibly explain it," Thorin said, for in truth he could not, only that something within him rebelled at the idea. "Very well then, two days."

"Two days," Bilbo echoed, nodding.

"You have no idea how we're going to find this claw of yours, do you?"

"Not a clue."

"Right then, I'll be back shortly," Thorin said as he stood. Bilbo's hand trailed along his side and the hobbit gave him a startled look.

"Where are you going?"

"To the forges to fetch us tools, Master Baggins." Thorin raised an eyebrow. "Unless you plan to dig through the gold with your bare hands?" Bilbo opened his mouth to protest. "I will only be a moment."

Thorin returned a short while later, dropping a second bucket of coals beside the fire and proffering a pair of shovels towards Bilbo. Bilbo eyed the tools and did not take his immediately. The wooden handle was crumbling and spotted with rust, even if the metal itself was still solid. "Are you certain they'll hold?"

"They're sturdy enough," Thorin said, examining the shovels.

"If you say so," Bilbo said, as he reluctantly accepted one from Thorin's hand. His fingers were stained immediately with rust, which he glared at with offended distaste, as if a bit of iron dust on his fingers was the worst thing that had happened to him these past days.

"The rust will not harm you," Thorin said dryly. Then he looked over to the campsite, which he noted was the same as he had left it. "You're not bringing the bedrolls? With all the work that must be done…"

"Oh no you don't," Bilbo replied. "I'm not having us stay out there a minute longer than needed. When we're done at the end of the day, we come back here."

"Seems inefficient," Thorin grumbled.

"It's _prudence_, not inefficiency. I don't know about you, but sitting right in the heart of a cursed hoard is not my idea of a holiday. I say we spend no more than an hour there at a time, at _most_," Bilbo said.

Thorin caught his own irritation even as it rose within him, noted and remembered it so that he may begin to recognize which emotions were the curse and which were his own. Still, the blasted platform was _cold_, save for Bilbo, and he had not felt truly warm since he had last lain amongst the gold. Even knowing of the curse, the prospect of sleeping there again had been a welcome one.

"Very well," he said. "Then there's no time to waste. Where did you wish to begin?"

Bilbo released a sigh. "I'm afraid to say it, but the crater itself really is the most sensible place. The miasma there was so strong even I could sense it. With any luck the source of the curse will be somewhere near the surface, and we can be in and out of there quickly. If not, we move on to the next plan," he said, hesitating and looking to Thorin out of the corner of his eye.

"As you say," Thorin said, inclining his head, and trying not to acknowledge the relief that swept through him at the thought of returning to the gold.

In truth, the distance to the crater was not very far, indeed it would have been five minutes, but with the shifting coins under their feet and the hills and valleys, it took longer. Steep were the walls of the crater, and they skidded down barefooted, the coins streaming to either side, before coming to rest at the bottom.

Thorin sagged as the warmth of the gold seeped in through his feet. There was nothing more he would have liked then than to lie down amongst the treasure and sleep for a year. His eyelids were heavy, there was the distant clank of his shovel hitting the ground and he was swaying, slipping…

"All right then, where is it?" Bilbo said. Thorin pried his eyes open and looked at the hobbit, eyelids falling as if they were weighted down with lead. Bilbo stood in the center of the crater leaning on his shovel as if it were a walking stick.

"Where is what?" Thorin said, noting how he had barely closed his eyes, yet his voice was thick and slurred as if he had woken from a deep sleep.

"The piece. The… claw, or tooth, whatever it is. Can you sense where it might be?" Bilbo said.

Thorin's eyebrows drew together as he mulled over Bilbo's words. They seemed to slip through his mind like quicksilver, forming no discernible pattern. "Sense it?"

Bilbo rolled his eyes and made no attempt to hide it. "Yes, sense it, is there an echo in here? Where should we start digging?"

Digging... digging where…? How should he…? "How in Durin's name would I know that?" His eyes drooped again and when he opened them Bilbo was standing in front of him, his hand bracing against Thorin's shoulder.

"Thorin, you said the gold is warm here. That you can sense it wherever it lies. It stands to reason then that if there is a source you should be able to sense it too. So where is it? Where do we start?" Thorin blinked at the rapid-fire questions, irritation flaring.

"Do you want an answer or the truth?" Thorin snapped, rousing himself.

Bilbo's face fell. "Not good?"

"There is no source," Thorin said flatly, sweeping out his hand to indicate the whole crater. "There is no particular spot in here where it begins or ends. It fills this place, like water in a bowl."

Bilbo's shoulders sank, and he pressed a hand to his forehead, shaking his head from side to side. "I don't know, I don't know what to do then, Thorin. It could take us weeks to dig through all of this, it must be ten feet at least to the floor." He dragged a hand through his curls and looked up, his expression pleading. "Please could you…could you at least try?

Thorin looked at him stonily. It was impossible. The heat came from all directions, as if he was indeed immersed in a hot bath. It was soothing, bewitching, and robbing his senses of all focus. To try to find one point in that swirling tide was ludicrous, it was folly. Not to mention pointless, for in his heart of hearts he knew that he was only humoring Bilbo, that the chances were so slim as to be impossible.

Then again, he had never shied away from impossible odds.

"Very well." Thorin sighed, and walked over to the center of the crater. Not far away lay his old shirt and boots where he had discarded them the first day, and the silver bowl where he had first caught sight of himself. He ignored them and crouched down, closing his eyes and pressing his fingertips to the gold as if it were stone. He waited, thinking on how ridiculous he must appear, how it had been foolish to entertain Bilbo's hopes when he must dash them immediately.

Then a thrum passed through Thorin, and he felt as if his body rang from head to toe, like a bell that had been struck. Every coin, statue, goblet and gem in Erebor was here and it was _his_. The treasures did not only have a presence, they had a _pulse_, and that pulse was the song that lulled him to his sleep. He crouched lower and closed his eyes, placing his other hand on the gold. As he did, he dislodged one of the coins and as he did he _felt_ it, he felt the infinitesimal shift in its position amongst millions of other pieces, like a stone dropped into a pool left ripples on its surface that travelled in every direction.

There _was_ something there, in the crater with them. Eyes closed, he could pick out Bilbo by scent alone, wool and pipeweed and earth on his feet. He knew where Bilbo stood by the way the gold shifted and buckled beneath him.

There was something else too. Something that had indeed been buried, and whatever it was it had _power_. Power radiating like heat from a forge, billowing in the air, spreading to the gold around them, calling. Its voice was weak, sleepy, for long it had lain below the earth, amongst the rock and stone, out of the light. But it had awakened now, just a fraction, at Thorin's call, reverberating in the space between them, naming him. He knew how to find it, he _wanted_ to find it and knew that it wanted to be found, it sang a clear golden note in the air. He merely had to take it from the place where it lay hidden.

He opened his eyes and stood in one languorous motion. His nostrils flared at the scent and the gold shifting beneath the talons of his feet. As he stood, his shoulders flexed and with a sound like the tearing of cloth his skin split and flaked away, armored scales emerging from the dead flesh to cover his back and sides.

"Do you know where it is?" a voice came and Thorin turned his head to face the source.

"It's you," Thorin mused, his voice a deep and harsh like the rumble of stones in the dark places of the world.

"Me?" Bilbo said, taking a step back that rang through the hoard. "What in the world does that mean? Did you feel the source of the disease? Thorin… Thorin, good heavens what happened to your back?" Thorin smelled the cold sweat of fear as it prickled the hobbit's forehead, and he took another step forward.

"It is on you, a thing you carry," Thorin said and sniffed the air. "Small." He took another step and stood before Bilbo. Black claws, long again as his fingers and sharp as blades, delicately clasped Bilbo's shoulders as Thorin leaned towards him. Bilbo's breath brushed Thorin's throat as he leaned in and yes, he could smell it there. He whispered into Bilbo's ear, "Something made of gold. But it is more than that. It is…" he looked Bilbo in the eye, the glowing blue of his gaze bathing Bilbo's face, "_precious_."

Bilbo trembled beneath his hand, and his mouth fell open with a sharp intake of breath.

Then he vanished.

* * *

Metal shrieked and cloth tore as Bilbo dragged himself free of his enemy's grip and in a second he was off, scrabbling up the edge of the golden bowl, coins and gems clanging and tumbling behind him. A sharp, hysterical cry rose at the back of his throat as he scrambled, expecting any minute to feel a hand close around his ankle.

So he ran.

But his precious did not grant him silence and he heard the sound of pursuit, a bellow of rage and the clash of feet on gold. The ring burned on his finger and he might have ripped it off in that moment if not for the ice of terror.

Gold. He had to get off the gold, and onto hard stone where he would not be heard. Even with what light there was reflecting off polished metal the room was a muddle of shadows, the strange gray swirling mist of the spectral world. He dared turn once to see a figure with eyes that burned blue as the heart of a flame, a creature of obsidian and stone, its wild hair streaming behind it as it gave chase. With a strangled gasp, he ran on.

His breath was ragged in his lungs and loud, too loud, in his ears. The sound of the coins clashing together behind him grew nearer. He saw his chance: the door to the treasury lying open, unguarded, and beyond the many rooms and dark holes of Erebor. Hide, he needed to hide. To go down beneath the earth, dark and deep, like an animal to ground and wait, wait for this creature to give up.

His feet hit the stone floor and in a renewed burst of speed he was flying, quick and silent as a shadow.

The pursuit grew nearer.

Then his enemy stepped out of the darkness, in front of the doorway.

He skidded to a halt, swallowing back a cry. The enemy, the monster, could not see him. Its eyes roved, blue and baleful, seeking him out and he realized he had a knife, a small one, meant for eating meals, but enough to reach its heart and if that failed, he had his hands, clever fingers to wrap around the creatures throat and _squeeze_ until its face was as blue as its eyes. He licked his lips, mouth gone dry from running and from the thought of killing this creature in front of him, the one that had tried to take his…

Ring. It was just a ring. Gold and magic but not…Bilbo swallowed back bile. It was not worth Thorin's life. He shook his head and the haze fell away. It was not an enemy in front of him, it was Thorin.

But even if Bilbo knew Thorin in that moment, the same could not be said for the dwarf. His eyes were those of a stalking predator and those horrible black scales now covered his entire chest and back save for a patch at the shoulders, and another on the left side of his chest, over his heart. Half of Thorin's face too was scarred with them. There was no recognition in his eyes. His hard lips were drawn back in a rictus and he sniffed the air, turning his head slowly to look straight at Bilbo.

The halls. The halls were still as fine a plan as any. They were many and winding, filled with dozens of rooms that might buy Bilbo time. Like the caves of the Misty Mountains all over again, he must make a leap.

He still had his knife, for Sting was back at the camp, where he would be expected. There was hardly any point to the little thing, but its edge was sharp. He took it from its sheathe, looking at it, then to Thorin.

Then he turned and threw it into the hoard.

It clanged off the side of a golden cauldron and struck a shield that rang like a gong. Thorin's head went up like a hound and Bilbo knew this… creature… was not his Thorin. His Thorin would not have fallen for so simple a trick, but Bilbo could not question fortune when it came, even if the cause turned his heart to dust in his chest.

The creature, Thorin, or rather the thing that wore Thorin's body, and who knew for how much longer his shape, charged back towards the gold and Bilbo dashed up the steps and into the wide stone corridors of Erebor.

* * *

**III**

This is the dead land  
This is cactus land

* * *

**Author Note****:** Hope you're enjoying the story so far. Do please leave a comment if you are, I love hearing from you all!


	11. Chapter 11

Trigger Warning: this chapter contains thoughts of suicide, as well as some other generally disturbing images and themes. Still PG-13 in its rating, but if you are sensitive to such things then please proceed with caution.

* * *

Its head came up at the clang and clatter and it took off, body hunched low to the ground as it sniffed out its prey. It smelled gold and power, wool and earth. It smelled fear. Fear that stank in the sweat of the creature, newly sprung when it had wrapped its claws round the quarry and brought it close.

The scent weakened even as it pursued and it snarled and snapped in fury, gnashing its teeth at being so eluded. Once the sound of clanging gold ceased, the trail faded all but entirely— its senses were not yet so keen that it could track by scent alone, but that would change. In time it would become huge, growing into size and power that would make its enemies quake.

There was no trace of its prey amongst the gold: the scent was cold, so it stormed away from there, prowling back up the stairs to the camp hidden amongst the platforms. It sniffed at the site, smelling charcoal and meat, the sharp tang of mint that puzzled its senses and masked its prey's scent. The source was a vial of oil and the creature kicked it aside its fury, where it smashed on the stone below. Then it returned to the door of the treasury, where it had first lost the trail, and ducked out into the halls.

It followed the remnants of the scent trail as if it were a golden thread winding through the halls, noting with frustration how it became dimmer with each minute. It passed through long corridors and across bridges suspended over darkness. A chair sat in the middle of the great chamber, a stalactite reaching from the vault above to touch it like a benediction. It was carved from an obelisk of stone, and in the center was crowned with a single empty socket. The creature spared this only a glance.

It hungered for gold.

The scent waned further in the great open halls, the wind from deep within the earth muddling and confusing the trail. It was no tracking hound to pick up even the faintest odor, nor could even the keen eyes of a hawk have tracked bare feet over barren stone. It turned on its heels, surveying the halls for some sign of its prey. Pathetic dead things crouched in corners, the slow decay of time reducing their bodies and clothes to dust. It ignored them. They were of no use even to feed upon.

Its thoughts were instead filing with visions of fresher meat. Of falling upon its prey, descending from the heights, first blows to the hamstrings and neck, immobilizing and killing it in seconds, the taste of salt and iron. Or it could choose to be slow, to drag the pleasure out. It could seize its treasure before the prey's dimming eyes and laugh as it did so, though it remembered little of why this would be, save that its prey was a thief and had something it desired. Already it could taste the blood on its lips and throat, and its claws curled at the thought.

Hours it searched. It tore rotting wood from rusted hinges, scoured rooms piled with the long dead, but the scent was cold. The siren call of the precious golden object was silent, as if it had returned to sleep after rousing itself only briefly. Still the creature wandered in hopes of rediscovering the scent, in and out of rooms without a care for their purpose.

The night had come and gone when it first began to feel ill at ease. There was a sound in its mind, like a bird beating its wings against a closed window. It stood in a room lined with great shelves like walls, filled with burnt paper and cracked clay. It had caught a scent here, faint as starlight, of the precious golden treasure that had escaped its grasp. The stacks called to it, for they held many hiding places where its prey might go to ground. The scent was maddening, tantalizing, and just out of reach.

But then the pain began. It gave a low, whimpering groan and clutched its head. There was a sound like glass breaking as it stumbled out of the library. Awareness was returning, memories dropping into its bloodthirsty mind like tesserae, building a mosaic that, piece by piece, turned hunger to sickened horror.

Yet one memory did not replace another. Would that it had. Instead it only filled in the blank spaces between them. First there was the headache, but the nausea that followed was no result of illness.

Thorin came awake in a body twitching with agony and a mind dripping horror. He remembered standing within the crater, sensing something that did not belong there, thinking it was the claw of Bilbo's theory. He remembered tracing the scent back, back, like following a golden thread, to Bilbo. He remembered the thread snapping tight, pulling at him, pulling at his mind until he stood outside of himself. Then it was no longer Bilbo in front of him but a thief, prey that must be pursued. Devoured. Then Bilbo vanished, somehow, into the air itself but the gold thread did not. It tugged at him, at his soul itself, and the creature had known it must give chase.

The trickle of memories became a torrent, images flooding his mind without mercy. Of looking upon his dead kin and wondering if he might feed upon them, jaws champing through crumbling bones and blood turned to dust in their veins.

Thorin fell to his knees, retching. No flames this time, only the chemical bile and whatever remained of the meal from the day before. Only a day? The memory mocked him, of the warm fire and the savory meal that made the sickness no longer seem insurmountable. Of gentle hands and quiet laughter, and Bilbo…

Thorin gagged again as the memory fell into place: memories of what end he had planned for Bilbo. Torturing him and stealing the treasure he carried, before Thorin would turn his claws upon him and watch with delight as those eyes clouded with death.

He retched again, and in a sudden, cold-sweat soaked moment of clarity, Thorin wondered if this would always be his family's lot. Would his line always be cursed to devour their own over trinkets, blood dripping from their jaws even as their fingers grasped for more, for jewels and gold and lordship, like a spider that ate its young?

Thorin hunched over, stomach twisting, and saw Thrór struggling in his arms as he dragged his grandfather from the treasury. How he had turned on his grandson after, wrath blazing in his eyes, swinging his fists, his teeth bared like an animal. Was it not only fitting then that he should follow that path? To destroy the living in order to lock hands around dead, cold metals and crystallized minerals? Fitting that they lose what they love, they who are not fit to carry it?

What good were his visions of glory now? He, who had dreamt of reclaiming Erebor for his people, returning to them the works of their hand, now he clung to the gold himself as Smaug had, had threatened the lives of his companions if they did not obey him. And look what he had become. The monster that haunted the halls of Erebor. Who had he once been? Where was the prince who had dreamed of home?

Thorin could no longer see him. He could not see anymore where his own thoughts began and the alien ones, dripping with blood and gold, ended. He was falling, melting into the creature that consumed his flesh and he could feel it, that distant roar of the wind when there was not a breath in the air, and knew it for the wings of its coming. Distant still, but for how much longer? How long until he fell to it again, and woke with Bilbo's blood on his claws and the flesh of his own people in his belly?

Thorin would not sit idle and wait for an answer to this question. There was a blade he remembered well among the hoard. A silver poniard without edge, only a wicked point that he had seen punch through the finest steel plate armor.

A blade well suited for his final service to Erebor.

* * *

Bilbo slept in the library, leaving the ring on through the night. The gray mist swirled like morning fog and he knew soon as he woke that he was not alone.

He shifted, silent and creeping, to look over the edge of the alcove where he'd made his bed the night before. The stone around his resting place was scorched black and scrawled with claw marks, and he hoped it wasn't too much of an omen. A gold statue had once made its home here, before Smaug dragged it off to the hoard. With any luck he'd fair better.

A figure detached itself from the shadows below, moving through the dust and fallen shelves, head turning this way and that at he sampled the air. Then his head turned and he looked up. Thorin's face was caught in one of the chains of golden light that fell from the tiny points in the ceiling high above and Bilbo's heart sank at the sight. The black scales now covered his back, shoulders and chest. Only a pale spot over the heart remained of the skin on his body, as far as Bilbo could tell. Of his face it was as if he wore a half-mask, the left side dark with black scales, the right side still the face Bilbo knew, but the scales wrapped around Thorin's throat like a collar, disappearing into his beard. His eyes glinted even in the sunlight, until he passed again into darkness.

Bilbo eased back into the alcove, pressing against the cold stone wall and out of sight. He could hear the ruffle of crumbled paper and scrape of claws from Thorin's steps as they paced this way and that. Then a terrible, whimpering groan and the steps were moving away again, back to the door, and were gone.

Bilbo released a long, shuddering breath but did not yet dare move from his hiding place. He must soon though: there had been no time to bring his pack and while the road had trained him to go a day, perhaps two, without collapsing from hunger it would mean failing reflexes, fuzzy thinking, and weakness of body that he could ill afford. He could not outlast Thorin, even without the curse. He must make his move, and soon. He had to get back to the door, to get out and find Gandalf. There was only one problem: with only the hidden door left for getting out of Erebor, he would have to get past Thorin and the treasury first.

A simple matter, he told himself. Hobbits were light and quick on their feet, and he was invisible to boot. It was only a matter of slipping by Thorin now as he had before.

Then again, nothing on this journey had ever been simple.

An hour more he waited before breaking from his hiding place, spending the time until then drifting in and out of a doze to save energy. Once out in the hall he found the nearest fountain, drinking his fill of the icy mountain water that still flowed through the city. It took the edge off and cleared his head, though he could feel, like a slowly descending blade, hunger as it teased at the edge of his senses. He had until sunset before that tease became a distraction.

Bilbo tried the other doors first: the great entrance hall, and the parapet where they had gone out to meet Thranduil and Bard, what felt like a lifetime before. All were closed off, locked down by slabs of stone that had fallen across the entrance: the defense mechanism of the mountain that Thorin had triggered, of no use against a dragon all those years before, but certainly impossible for a hobbit to pass. There may have been more exits, but Erebor was vast and he did not like the idea of becoming lost somewhere in its depths. No, he'd rather face Thorin than that. He felt a strange unease at the thought of those darkened caverns, at the memory of lantern eyes and the creeping creature that made its home beneath the Misty Mountains. How easy it might be to put on the ring and slink away, down into the depths…

Bilbo shook his head to clear it of the image, having no time for such odd musings. His thoughts was haunted enough as it was. There was no company now to keep his mind from dwelling on the bodies that lined the halls and rooms of the city. Mummified by time or charred by fire, at first they frightened Bilbo to his marrow, his imagination conjuring images of the risen dead, watching him as he passed, appearing in doorways or from behind darkened corners, reaching for him with crumbling fingers.

But he was a kindly soul, and it was not long before they only made him sad. There were so many, and too many of them were children, clutching mothers or each other in their final moments. There were rooms where corpses were piled by the door in their last effort to hold back their doom. It made him sick, and it made him angry, and not for the first time since the fire-drake fell over Laketown he felt a fierce satisfaction at the creature's death, more than simple relief. He thought then too that he understood something more of Thorin's rage. The thought of a dragon attacking his beloved Shire… His stomach roiled for he could see it all too clearly, the Party Tree burning, firing raining down from the sky. Bilbo shook his head once, then again violently for he felt he might be ill. He forced himself onward until he came to ceilings that vaulted like the sky itself, and found himself in the throne room. There, he froze.

Thorin stood before the throne.

It meant that, beyond him, the way was clear. Bilbo could make a dash now, through the treasury and up the stairs to the hidden door. There would be no way for Thorin to stop him, he could be free of these halls and down in the camp before noon.

Yet something drew him aside, drew him forward. The fell energy which had given Thorin size, that made him seem a monster in dwarven form, was gone. Thorin's shoulders were bowed and he was hunched forward, holding something in his hands as he gazed up at the throne. Bilbo crept forward up the stairs and down the long path, telling himself he still had a good head start should he need to run. After all, Thorin could not see him.

"I know you are there, Bilbo." Thorin said. Bilbo's breath caught and his heart thundered as he stilled. "I smell you. Strange, that after so long on the road, and after so many foul things have befallen us, you still carry the scent of your home. Pipeweed and earth are not so common down here. I would know you in the dark." He turned, exposing the good side of his face as he looked back. All life had fled his eyes. "I would know you if I were blind." His brow drew together as if from some inner agony. "There is no need to hide; you will soon be free of here. I ask only that I may look upon you one last time. It… seems I am always asking you for what I do not deserve."

It was then Bilbo saw the silver poniard in Thorin's hand. It had thin, edgeless blade with a deadly point that was now pressed to the soft spot above Thorin's heart. Even as all wisdom and better sense told Bilbo this was a ploy to make him reveal himself, the sight of the blade drowned those voices out in a rush of terror. Bilbo dragged off the ring off and clenched it in his hand.

Thorin's eyes widened as he appeared. "Even now?" he breathed.

"Thorin, please. Whatever you're about to do, stop it," Bilbo said, advancing a step. He held his hands open and flat in front of him, the ring pinched between thumb and forefinger.

Thorin's expression closed. "I spent all the night and morning hunting you, because I heard a golden voice calling to me, naming you my enemy," Thorin said, his voice hollow. "You were right to flee."

"No, no I wasn't. I should have stayed instead of running like a… I should have _helped_. Better yet, I should never have brought you back to the gold, Thorin. I am as much to blame here as you," Bilbo said.

"It was as good a plan as any…" Thorin said but Bilbo was already shaking his head violently.

"It was a terrible plan. It was the worst… we should have just forgotten it entirely. Thorin, I _wanted_ the plan to fail. I wanted you to admit we needed Gandalf. It was a trick, and I'm sorry. Please just… tell me you're angry with me and put that away. There's still time." Anger did indeed fall over Thorin's face, some of that suspicion that had darkened his eyes when they spoke of Bilbo's theft, but then it simply… dissolved, swallowed by exhaustion, and that haunted shadow returned.

"Time?" Thorin echoed. "Had I found you I would not only have killed you. I would have tortured you. Devoured you." Bilbo swallowed and Thorin's eyes caught the movement, and became empty and horribly blank. "I have befouled the halls of my fathers, imagined…the dead…."

Thorin looked up then, the good side of his face pale and sickened. Then the horror fell back, pushed away, and in its place was a sort of weary resolve. His voice became gentle. "Tell me, is that ring the manner in which you saved us from Thranduil's dungeon, and many times beside?"

Bilbo nodded, feeling cold and sick, desperate to keep Thorin talking if only to stay his hand another moment longer. "I found it in the goblin tunnels."

"My clever burglar, ever resourceful," Thorin murmured fondly.

Bilbo took another step forward, but despaired of reaching Thorin before he plunged the sword into his own heart. "I would give it to you freely, if you would only stop this."

Thorin stilled at his words, then shook his head and turned his gaze back to the sword in his hand. "I do not wish it. Keep it, and let it not be said that Thorin Oakenshield became no better than Smaug in his final hours."

"No one will say that," Bilbo said desperately, edging forward. Thorin's back stiffened at his words, his hands tightening around the hilt.

"No, they will not." Thorin looked away then, up at the great throne. As he did something in his expression changed, became at once noble and at peace. He looked up with something approaching awe at the great stone chair before him, the tension easing from his shoulders, as if remembering where he was, what had been gained and what had been lost in the taking of it, all encapsulated in the throne before him, and the sword in his hand.

"Farewell, good thief. I go now to the halls of waiting to sit beside my fathers, until the world is renewed. I go with sword in hand, falling in defense of my home, if not in the manner I once thought." A drop of blood welled beneath the silver point and trailed down his skin, a shock of red against the gray and black of his body, until it was lost amongst the scales.

"Stop!" Bilbo cried, taking a step forward. "Thorin, please wait. Let me fetch Gandalf, let me bring him here. He will break the curse, I know it. It's not too late." Closer now, Bilbo could see the edge of Thorin's face, saw him smiling.

"Always your advice is good, and it is my own folly that I choose to ignore it. There is no shame in having failed in this errand, not when it was doomed from the start."

"You don't know that," Bilbo insisted.

"I do," Thorin said, his head lifting. "This curse is the work of the Enemy, the first and greatest Enemy, and there is no power left on Middle-Earth that can match him. It was foolish of me to think otherwise."

Bilbo shook his head violently, for he remembered laughter by the fire and the scent of mint, how the fell light had dimmed from Thorin's when he looked at Bilbo. "I don't believe that. If you had been so certain you would have done this before. You would never have searched for a cure with me, or come with me to find the claw."

"It was as good an attempt as any and you, my burglar, always do seem to find a way out of impossible situations," Thorin said, and his smile changed, no longer so sad. The smile touched only half his face, but it brought with it a light like the sun breaking through a storm, and Bilbo's heart shuddered and cracked in his chest. The first tears welled in his eyes and, for a moment, blurred Thorin from his sight before they made their burning trails down his cheeks.

"Then let me try once more, please, just once more," Bilbo said, his voice breaking.

Thorin shook his head. "There is no time. Once the sickness has consumed me I will not care for you, or my kin, or even the mountain, only for claiming the treasures of these halls. I will be a servant of evil. Let me die instead as I am."

"I can't do that, I can't!" Bilbo choked and tried coming closer again but Thorin turned, holding up a hand.

"You no longer need to fear for me, Bilbo, only let me go. I would not have my last sight of you be your tears."

"No," Bilbo said, biting off each word. "I will never forgive you if you do this, Thorin, never as long as I live. Put the sword down."

Thorin's expression became grim. "Then perhaps I have found the one thing you cannot forgive."

Thorin readied the sword, and something snapped within Bilbo and found himself running. He slipped the ring onto his hand and barely registered Thorin's look of surprise as his vanishing again. Thorin had only just managed to turn around when Bilbo slammed into him, driving his shoulder into Thorin's stomach, sent the sword flying from his hand at the impact.

The two tumbled forward and he heard the _crack_ as Thorin's head hit the floor. A shudder ran through Thorin's body and his eyes rolled in his head as he went limp. Bilbo snatched the sword from the ground and threw it as far as he could. It flew, streaking silver, end over end, through the air before vanishing into the abyss beyond the walkway, like a shooting star vanishing into the night.

* * *

Here the stone images  
Are raised, here they receive  
The supplication of a dead man's hand  
Under the twinkle of a fading star.

* * *

**Author Note:** Thank you for reading. It would really mean a lot to me if you would leave a comment with your thoughts on the story so far, after all it is the only way I even know that you're reading!


	12. Chapter 12

Thorin awoke unable to move. Even the act of raising his head drew an answering tug at his wrists, and he tried to force himself forward only to be dragged back. He opened his eyes, and shut them again quickly as a blinding light assaulted them, sending pain like a knife through his skull. Thorin went still; eyes screwed shut, breathing shallowly through his nose as he tried to take stock of his situation. He could feel vaguely, as if through thick leather armor, that a rope bound his wrists to either side of him, and with a clever knot at that, for when he pulled at one hand, the other was pulled away in the opposite direction.

The present had not yet filtered back and he thought nothing of the thick covering on his arms, only wondered how he might break the ropes. There too was the question of who had done this, and when he had been captured, and where he had been imprisoned. A wave of nausea roiled over him, like standing on the deck of a tossing ship, and his vision sparkled behind his eyelids.

"Thank goodness you're awake," said a voice softened by relief. Thorin's head jerked up and he felt the hard tug at his shoulders and arms pulling him in either direction. He finally managed to open his eyes and squinted at the blur of blue that sat before him against gray stone. A cave? And…his burglar. Yes, the voice had been Bilbo's. Some of the panic left Thorin then, for if Bilbo was there then already there was hope.

"How came we here?" Thorin mumbled, his tongue thick in his mouth and a taste like charcoal at the back of his throat.

"It's all right. We won't be here long. I just wanted to make sure you woke up. That was a nasty knock on the head you took there." There was a watery quality to Bilbo's voice, as one being cheerful despite recent tears. Thorin tried to open his eyes wider but the dizziness struck again and he flinched.

"How long until we can escape? Or are you bound as I am?" Thorin said. He heard a faint sound like a hiccough.

"No, I am free," Bilbo said and never had Thorin heard such misery in his voice.

"Then unbind me so we may both leave this place," Thorin said. His vision was clearing now, and though he twisted against the ropes he felt no pain against his wrists; a small blessing. There was something about the shape of the room they were in: dark on either side, with stone upon the floor and steps leading away. He was seated on something hard, a chair of some sort and of dwarven height for his feet were settled on the ground before him. He had seen a room like this once, from this vantage point too, long ago.

"I'm sorry, I can't," Bilbo said, and his voice broke. "I must go, but I will be back with help."

"Where are we? You still have not answered my question."

"Oh, Thorin, I'm sorry…" Bilbo finally released a sob, strangled as if had been hard suppressed, fought off and fought down through every word he spoke and finally breaking free. It rose in Thorin an answering fear and he knew he must look, though the dim light strike his eyes like a blow. He forced them open, peering at his surroundings.

Great stone pathways stretched before him and the ceiling arched above, supported by enormous pillars taller than any tree. The halls of his fathers, the halls of his childhood. He knew this place, this dais, for many times indeed had he stood upon it.

He sat upon the throne of his grandfather. Bound there, rather, and the rope was knotted around the back of the stone chair. Above him the empty socket of the Arkenstone shadowed the stone like a missing eye. Bilbo knelt at his feet, looking up at him, his eyes bright and red-rimmed from crying. And all came rushing back.

"There was nowhere else and I was afraid you would hurt yourself when you woke up." Bilbo wrung his hands as he spoke. "Now if you could just wait here while I go for help—"

"Did you do this to mock me?" Thorin said, his voice soft and dangerous.

"I—what?" Bilbo said. He had half risen to his feet and now stared, stopped in his tracks.

"I remember now. What I have become. What I was prepared to do, rather than dishonor the memory of my fathers, allowing a dragon once more into these halls." Thorin said. "And you placed me on the throne."

"There was nowhere else!" Bilbo protested. "What could I have done, dragged you down to the dungeons? Put you in a wheelbarrow?"

"You might have cast me into the darkness and let me die as I wished," Thorin shot back. "Instead of defiling my grandfather's seat!"

"When will you get it through your head that I'm trying to save your _life_?"

"When will _you_ understand that I do not wish it? Do you think this is a kindness?" Thorin hissed. "Do you think you are aiding me by continuing this cursed existence? Look at me!" He pulled forward against the ropes and Bilbo flinched away. "I will not allow another monster to rule beneath the mountain!"

"And you won't have to!"

"I will! _This_ will be my legacy if we do not end this now. Soon my will shall no longer be my own. I cannot know when this madness will strike again or what I will do when it comes upon me. With every hour it draws nearer—do you not understand? There is no hope for me!" Thorin said in a pained snarl.

Bilbo faltered and looked at Thorin as if seeing something in the far distance, something receding with every moment. "Then what would you have me do? I cannot release you, or help you in ending your life, nor will you accept help in saving it. So, what would you have me do? What do you want?" Thorin took a deep breath, abjurations and commands coming to his mind and poised upon his lips…

…And fell away.

They say the dying may speak truth long hidden, at a time when all secrets and pride cease to have any meaning. So then fell Thorin's many walls of silence, the cloak of solitude required of leadership that may have always in part been a crutch. He would have reached out then to run a hand down Bilbo's face, to raise his chin and bid him look at Thorin in those final hours while he still bore his own face. Yet bound as he was, he could not, and so only spoke with what gentleness remained in him. "I want you to stay with me. Until the end."

As Thorin met Bilbo's eyes he willed him to understand this final request, the depth of necessity and shame that brought him to it, and as he did so a change came over the hobbit. Bilbo's shoulders fell as if a great weight had been dropped upon his shoulders.

Bilbo swayed, and when he looked up a tear glinted in his eye and he seemed dazed, his voice trembled as he spoke. "Then I will stay," he said, and settled, almost fell, down upon the steps, half facing Thorin as if he could not bear to look upon him. He took several deep breaths and for a moment there was only silence filled with the promise of many words as yet unspoken. It was a fragile silence, and across it a bridge of understanding, that if Bilbo were to leave or Thorin snap the ropes that bound him there would be no going back. There was little time left, Thorin could feel it in the hardening of his skin and the cold turn of his thoughts, which longed even then for the gold.

But for now they had this, and the silence, and when the harshness of Bilbo's breathing eased he settled back onto his hands and looked out over the throne room. "It is very grand, even now," Bilbo said and turned his face a little so Thorin could see his profile. "Funny, I know very little about your life. It must have been a wondrous thing, to grow up here."

"It was," Thorin said quietly, and once he may have lapsed into silence and brooding then, remembering the days of Erebor when it was a great city and not a tomb.

Instead he discovered in himself a desire to speak, and it seemed a spark had been lit there, in the dark. He found it mattered to him, that there be one who remembered his life as he had known it, not with titles or deeds. And it seemed very strange to him, who had so long defined his life by those measures. What did the histories care that he had loved his grandfather, save that that filial duty drove him to take up an oaken branch as a shield in battle? What care did they have for the first time he had seen fireflies as a child and thought they were stars? None. So he had never told these things, these small and unimportant things in the life of an exile.

"I was born the eldest, though I have no memory of being alone. My brother, Frerin, was there from my earliest recollection. I am told my name was the first word he spoke…"

These things did not matter, in the great sweep of deeds in Middle Earth. And yet he found himself telling them to Bilbo Baggins and found that it mattered to him that there should be one who heard these tales, that there be one who lived to remember them.

* * *

Two days passed in this way.

Occasionally Thorin would doze upon the throne, his head nodding on his shoulder. but his rest was brief, as if he was forcing back the periods of unconsciousness, knowing how few waking moments remained. At first too, Bilbo had been able to convince Thorin to take meals along with him. He dared not risk leaving long enough to fetch wood for a fire, but there were plenty of apples, cheese, and waybread to keep them fed, though never in so satisfying a manner as that first meal.

Except with time they found Thorin could no longer eat, and by evening of the second day it was clear that the needs of Thorin's body had simply…stopped. It became apparent when he graciously accepted an apple Bilbo offered him, but then only held it, looking so long and silently at the shadow of his own form in the polished surface that eventually Bilbo accepted it back.

"The more for you," Thorin said, his forced smile not enough to cover the shadow in his eyes.

"I don't need it that badly," Bilbo said. It was the last they spoke of the matter. Both knew that dragons had no real need to eat; one such as Smaug could not have survived at that size even if he ate a herd of cattle a day. It was gold and fell magics that sustained them, and Bilbo felt in himself a desperate desire to scream, to find some way to rebel as he watched the daily needs of Thorin's body dwindled and the beloved form Bilbo knew faded into the disease his skin.

In those final days Bilbo found he could not go long without touching Thorin. At first the contact was casual, or accidental. As he leaned against the throne for their conversations his hand would brush Thorin's. Another time, he had scooted nearer to rest his back against the stone and accidentally leaned against the soft fabric of Thorin's trousers. He had started and moved quickly, but Thorin had not stopped him and Bilbo had settled back only a few inches away.

Once, while they were discussing the utter perplexity (to dwarves, at least) of giving away gifts on one's own birthday, Bilbo's hand brushed Thorin's as he gestured to illustrate the many branches of the Shire family trees, and lingered. Thorin watched him from beneath lashes barely visible now against the dark stains of the scales, and his hand had move incrementally, as much as the rope would allow, until his fingers had entwined with Bilbo's.

"You're not frightened anymore, are you?" Thorin said softly. Bilbo's breath seized in his throat, and he clenched his hands tighter around Thorin's.

"I see nothing to be frightened of," he said, and Thorin nodded, his eyes drifting back down to their hands. The soft, pink flesh of Bilbo's hand, stubby fingers with short nails, wrapped around broad strong dwarven hands now armored as if with charred steel, the claws lending an inch of length to make the fingers seem unnaturally long. But what he said was true: he was no longer frightened.

Instead Bibo's heart ached at the memory of sword-callused palms and rough tan skin. The rest of Thorin's body had been very pale, or so he had seen in these past few days. Dwarves were loathe to go without their many layers of clothing and armor, Thorin especially, and so only his face and hands were burnished by the sun and wind. Bilbo imagined he too must be unrecognizable from the soft creature he had been when he ran out his door. Though Bilbo was often outside in the Shire, he had not been callused by anything more severe than gardening tools. How much had changed.

Change was not something he wanted to think about anymore.

"Remind me to tell you the story of my coming of age. Fine and fertile ground for blackmail it is, but I trust you not to hold it against me," Bilbo said lightly.

Thorin looked up with sudden interest. "Do tell."

"Oh no, I've been talking over an hour, it's your turn now while I have something to drink."

"Very well." Thorin laughed. "Let me tell you then of my sister's wedding, I can assure it is very much the same..."

* * *

Three days since he had bound Thorin to the throne. Three days of passing the time by exchanging stories, each telling the other of his life, starting with childhood. They had found in each other a mutual love of fireflies, an adventurous mother and in Thorin's case a sister as well, who had eloped with a dwarf of a different clan. Not only that, but a dwarf so far below her station he would not have been allowed within ten feet of a princess had they not been in exile. Bilbo confessed the strictures were not quite so severe in the Shire, for there was no codified rank or nobility, but still he understood how a family might frown upon such a match.

They stayed away from such subjects as Gandalf, Elves, or the quest itself. Bilbo thought at times that he would dearly like a quill and ink to set down Thorin's tale, for at almost two-hundred years he had seen much that was only distant history for Bilbo, many marvels and adventures that made his own life in the Shire seem quit stodgy and dull by comparison. Comfortable, Bilbo might once have said, and free of trouble, but he found that he no longer thought of it that way.

"My life too might have been quite dull had things gone differently," Thorin pointed out, and there was no resentment in his voice. "Even on the road there were many days of boredom. Despite our exile, I was still held to certain standards, and not excused from my duties. I can assure you, tedium takes on new meaning after a fortnight of presiding over the same drawn-out dispute from dawn until dusk."

Neither did they speak of the present. If Thorin's wrists ached, bound as they were to the throne, he did not complain. Neither did Bilbo leave the throne room, even when the second pack of supplies still waited back in the treasury. He had only fetched the first with some hasty supplies, including the rope, when Thorin was still unconscious from the blow, not daring to take more time or be weighted down.

In this manner they reestablished some measure of trust. Thorin did not attempt to break his bonds and injure himself, though Bilbo knew well that he could, and Bilbo did not leave Thorin's sight to summon help Thorin did not wish to have. Those three days bought some understanding that wasn't there before. Some peace came to them too, and Bilbo thought he would not mind the hard stone, the cold food, or general discomfort if he may only tarry there a little longer, listening to the deep rumble of Thorin's voice.

Yet both knew time was not theirs.

* * *

Bilbo was drowsing when it happened, his back against the foot of the throne, his cheek pressed to the inside of Thorin's knee. The warmth had lulled him and he had taken comfort from the fact Thorin could not move without his knowing. Thorin in turn had not protested, saying only that it was practical that they should share body heat.

"It is time, Bilbo," Thorin said. Bilbo blinked drowsily and realized guiltily that he had left a drool spot on the soft fabric of Thorin's pant leg. Then Thorin's words filtered through the haze of waking and the pleasant fog of sleep was dispersed by the cold, leaden feeling that dropped into the pit of his stomach.

"Time? Time for what?" he said, though he knew: there must be an end, that they could not hold back the world and time itself with pleasant conversation. Still there was that part of him that wished to delay it, even for a few moments.

"Bilbo, look at me," Thorin said, and there was a gentleness to his voice, a tenderness that told Bilbo all he needed of what lay before. It was the voice of the deathbed.

With great reluctance he stood and turned. As he did so he promised himself that he would not flinch at the sight, that he could give this if nothing else. He was glad of it, for even with this resolution in his heart a gasp came to his lips, choked back, at what he beheld.

Of Thorin's skin there was almost no sign. A gray and flaking patch was still there above his heart, and over his right cheek. All other places were covered now by shining obsidian scales. The talons had lengthened in the night, and rested in scratched grooves that dug deep into the arms of the throne. At first Bilbo thought Thorin's hair and beard were yet untouched, but closer now he could see that it thinned in patches along his left jawline, and that soon the rest would follow suit as the scales thickened. Thorin held himself hunched forward as much as his bindings would allow, the hardening scales stealing from him his upright form: the spines too had lengthened along his back.

His eyes flickered up to Bilbo and he saw that they were strange now, and fell, the pupils narrowed like those of a cat's, the iris extending so almost nothing of the whites remained. They burned with an inner light, blue as the heart of a flame, and the world tilted as Bilbo looked into them. It took almost physical effort to pull his eyes away but, once freed, his gaze fell upon Thorin's arms. Perhaps it was only the effect of the scales, but the forearms seemed harder, broader, as if they were gaining new muscles. Though Thorin still kept a dwarven form Bilbo could no longer deny the signs. Soon the new changes would set in, the wrenching of bone and muscle as the curse tore Thorin apart and rebuilt him.

All of this stuck in Bilbo's throat and he could only manage to say, "You are changing."

Thorin nodded. "It is coming. I will sleep once more, and when I awake it will be upon me. When that happens it will take my…my mind with it." All this he said in a calm and measured tone, but the last words were strangled and choked off and he looked away. "Bilbo, I am afraid."

Bilbo's throat seized and he felt as if his heart would break in two. There was still so much waiting to be said. Words of comfort, one last attempt to offer help, hidden thoughts that began upon the Carrock and had been forgotten on the wall and only just remembered. All fell away, because they must, because here at the end of it all they were stripped down to no more than who they were: that was all that was needed, all that could be done and all that would never be. He put his hand over Thorin's and this time there was no need to ignore the claws, for he no longer saw them.

"I am here."

Thorin turned his hand, threading his fingers through Bilbo's. Black scales stood out in sharp relief against the soft skin. "_Men lananubukhs menu_," Thorin murmured.

"What does that mean?" said Bilbo. Something "I" and "you" he thought, recalling the battle cries of the dwarves, the few words he had gleaned by context and dared not tell them he knew.

"I cannot say, and there is no time to teach you," Thorin answered with a wan smile.

"Cannot?"

Thorin's smile faded and he gave a shuddering breath. "There would be no kindness in it." His hand closed, spasmed, around Bilbo's. "They are words I would have liked to say many times, over many years, if I could. Words written on the heart."

A wild impulse came over Bilbo, something desperate and Tookish and later he would curse his Baggins side that it held him back, that all he did was lift his hand and brush it against the side of Thorin's face, the place where the scales had not yet spread. Then he drew Thorin close, and pressed their foreheads together, feeling the feverish warmth of the dry, smooth scales, and the gentle brush of breath against his lips. Another heat was building behind Bilbo's eyes, and his throat constricted such that he could barely breathe.

Bilbo heard a soft intake of breath and felt Thorin tremble against him, so faintly it might have been his imagination. Thorin pressed closer, their noses brushing, and Bilbo's hand tightened around the nape of Thorin's neck, fingers tangled in the mane of his hair. No more could he do, no more could he bring himself to do over that gulf so wide and filled with so much that was silent. Thorin went still beneath his touch and his lips parted and it seemed in that moment he may bridge that gap.

Then Thorin released a shuddering breath and drew away.

"Do not let my kin see me like this," Thorin whispered his eyes finding Bilbo's, his words replacing whatever other he might have spoken. Bilbo's lower lip quivered and he nodded, not daring to speak. A look of peace swept over Thorin's face at this assurance and he closed his eyes, his breath slowing into the deep, even fall of sleep.

He did not stir again, even when Bilbo squeezed his hand in return. The patch on Thorin's chest beckoned and he knew what he must do to keep his word but he had not yet the heart to do it. A little longer, just a little longer, he told himself.

The mad Tookish side had its moment then, but too late, always too late, when Bilbo threw his arms around Thorin's bowed shoulders and curled up in his lap. He leaned his head against Thorin's chest and listened, dazed, to the strong, steady beat of his heart. The sound distracted him from the empty ache that was blossoming inside him like a wound, such that he did not even notice the first tears as they made their burning trails down his face.

Then, unbidden, a choked sob tore through Bilbo and he buried his face against Thorin's chest and wept, until his eyes were red and his voice was hoarse.

* * *

Is it like this  
In death's other kingdom  
Waking alone  
At the hour when we are  
Trembling with tenderness  
Lips that would kiss  
Form prayers to broken stone.

* * *

**Translation:** _Men lananubukhs menu_ - I love you

**Author Note:** Well there you have it, folks, we finally hit the title chapter. Thank you for reading thus far. It would really mean a lot to me to hear what you thought!


	13. Chapter 13

Bilbo moved from the throne room in a daze, leaving Thorin where he slept. It was the first time in days that he had left that place, and it was strange to walk again. The halls of Erebor were quiet in their emptiness and in his heart he felt a cold sort of awe at the great arching stones, the terrible silence, being so small and so very alone and lost amongst the grandeur.

He barely saw the gold as he walked through the treasury and back to their little campsite on the stone platform. All was as they had left it, there were even some coals still smoldering in the fire. His heart lurched at the sight of them.

Then, mechanically, because it seemed the right thing to do, he set the kettle above the coals and filled it with water from the skin. He began to tidy the site, repacking the food, bandages, ointments and cookware. He ignored the memory of warmth as he stored Thorin's bedroll, even as his knuckles whitened and he had to stop for a moment to breathe.

Last of all he found Sting, carefully propped against the wall, safe within its sheathe. His fingers were numb as he belted it around his waist and there was a whispering in his ears like distant voices calling his name. The promise he had made came back to him, and he thought, not yet, not when his hands had no feeling. Then he remembered his tea and felt a tiny rush of a relief. Something hot in his stomach would make it all so much easier. Just what that would be his mind shied away from.

This would not be like wargs or spiders, a traitorous voice whispered through the cacophony of '_not yet, not yet_', and he nearly spilled the tea as he poured, so badly did his hands shake. And whether by will or accident, he realized he had poured it into Thorin's cup and at last his hands stilled as the warmth seeped through the tin. He placed his lips to the rim and for a long while did not drink, only stared into the embers. The tea grew cold and his mind fell into a soundless haze, for there was nothing left to do now. He had made a promise, and Thorin waited in the other room for the last gift Bilbo could ever give him.

The cup slid from his nerveless hands…

… and did not strike the floor.

A face appeared in front of him.

"Bilbo! I've been calling your name for five minutes, is something wrong with your hearing?" Bilbo blinked, his eyes refocusing as he came free of his daze and saw the face of Kíli. A hand closed over his shoulder.

"Did you manage to find Thorin?" Fíli appeared beside his brother. Bilbo's gaze drifted over him. Fíli head was still bandaged and he winced as he crouched down, and his was pale too. Otherwise he appeared himself again, free of the wounds he had taken from the battle.

"What are you doing here?" Bilbo breathed.

"Told you we would, didn't we?" Fíli said. "Soon as we got better."

"We've been worried about you!" Kíli said. "It's been almost a week."

Fíli and Kíli. Thorin's kin. His promise. The blood drained from Bilbo's face and his whole body went terribly cold. "You shouldn't be here, you must get away now!" he cried. Fíli and Kíli exchanged a look.

"And why would that be, Master Baggins?" Another voice came from behind them and had Bilbo not already been sitting he might have fallen over.

"Gandalf!" Kíli said.

"These two were in such a hurry to find you they nearly left me behind," Gandalf said, walking around the fire to stand behind Fíli and Kíli. "Hello, Bilbo. I trust we have not kept you waiting too long?"

Bilbo looked to each of them in turn, and at length he did the only thing an exhausted heart and mind could manage.

He burst into tears.

After much fussing and flailing, in which Fíli and Kíli fell over each other trying to figure out what they had said to offend their hobbit, Gandalf took the situation in hand. Within minutes the tea was warmed again and a blanket wrapped around Bilbo's shoulders. This time Gandalf made sure Bilbo finished the entire cup before they tried to tease the story from him.

"Yes, I found Thorin," Bilbo said in a hollow voice, for the brothers would not let him have any peace until he did.

"Then why won't you tell us where he is?" Fíli said.

"Right! Uncle could be hurt somewhere, or sick," said Kíli.

Bilbo shot Gandalf a pleading look over his teacup. Gandalf seemed to catch on and placed his hands on Fíli and Kíli's shoulders. "I think Master Baggins and I need to have a little chat," he said. "In private."

Fili's brow drew together and he looked as if he might protest when Kíli butted him aside. "Right then, Fíli and I can go look for Thorin," he said eagerly.

"You most certainly will not!" Gandalf said. "Back up the tunnel with the both of you."

"Back up the tunnel?" Kíli echoed in outrage.

"A curse lies upon this place so thick it's a wonder even you cannot see it," Gandalf retorted. "I would not risk you two taking another step forward unattended."

"We're not children," Kíli protested but Fíli put a hand on his arm, his expression intent.

"If this place is cursed, then we shouldn't _all_ be looking for Thorin," Fíli said.

"No, you mustn't!" Bilbo said, wringing his hands together as something sharp, hysterical rose within him.

"And why not?" Fíli said, rounding on Bilbo. "Unless you have had something to do with why he's missing?"

"The dragon is dead, why would he need a sword down here?" Kíli said, nodding to Sting at Bilbo's waist. Something seemed to come over them, a shadow. The brothers stood side by side, looking at Bilbo with eyes that were as pitiless as they were suspicious. Bilbo flinched back, until a towering gray form stepped between them.

"Because your uncle was not in his right mind when Bilbo came down here," Gandalf interrupted, looking down at Fíli and Kíli with his back to Bilbo. "Suspicion and aggression, the first symptoms of dragon sickness. Look at you, only a matter of _minutes_ and you two are already influenced! I'm sure Master Baggins was only taking reasonable precautions."

"Why should we trust him?" Fíli snapped. "He's been down here for _days_ without sending for help, and Thorin's nowhere to be seen. The last time they were together, Bilbo stole the Arkenstone."

"Enough!" Gandalf said. "This is not a matter for debate. You two return to the entrance of the tunnel while I get to the bottom of this. If you do not hear from us in an hour you're welcome to come looking, but until then you _may not_ go further into the treasury, do I make myself clear?"

Fíli placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. Kíli started and looked at his brother in surprise. Bilbo shrank back, for the dwarf's eyes were cold and hard and he thought he may well draw against Gandalf.

"If anything has happened to Thorin…" Fíli growled.

"Then I will do what I can to aid him, you have my word," Gandalf said. Fíli held his gaze, eyes narrowed, but the wizard's gaze must have been stronger for after a moment Fíli nodded. The steely look did not leave his eyes, but he grabbed Kíli by the elbow and stormed back the way they had come. "And do not linger out of sight; I will know you're there," Gandalf called after them. They grumbled, but their steps faded into the distance.

Gandalf turned back to Bilbo, whose face was a picture of misery. "Though I imagine that sword has something to do with it. Why don't you tell me everything that has happened?"

But Bilbo found he could not speak and only sat there, shivering. He might have cried again had he any tears to spare. The sword was like a brand against his leg and he only knew there was little time left before Thorin awoke and looked at him with eyes that did not know him. He would do anything to stop that, yet quailed at the thought of what must be done, and the vulnerable spot above Thorin's heart.

Gandalf's face filled his field of vision, and Bilbo saw he was frowning. "Now, how in the world did you accomplish this, Thorin Oakenshield?" he murmured to himself. Bilbo did not resist as Gandalf pressed a cool, dry hand to his forehead. "I had been prepared for something of this nature, but certainly not in this form." Bilbo looked at Gandalf in a daze, saying nothing.

"Not very strong, but then it wouldn't be after so little time. This does explain a great deal," Gandalf said. Then he moved his hand over Bilbo's eyes, gently closing the lids and whispered, "Come back to us, Bilbo."

Bilbo started, then shivered from head to toe as if he had been dumped into ice water. His mind came awake, the exhaustion that had clouded it dispersing, and he saw the world sharper and more clearly than he had in days. Then he looked down and with a cry took Sting from its scabbard and cast it to the ground. It rang like a bell as it struck the stone.

He then rounded on the wizard, blinked as if seeing him for the first time. "Gandalf!" Bilbo exclaimed.

"Yes, I'm here," Gandalf said, but Bilbo was shaking his head violently and seized Gandalf by the hand, dragging him as much as he could towards the stairway.

"We've no time to waste. Gandalf, something terrible has happened to Thorin, I can't even begin to describe it except to say that it is—"

"A dragon sickness?"

Bilbo stopped at the edge of the staircase and turned on his heels to glare at Gandalf. "How did you know?"

"Your eyes," Gandalf said. "Many think that a dragon's greatest weapons lie in their flame, though to be sure there are also the teeth and claws. But in truth it is the dragon-spell of their gaze that is the most fearsome gift of the Enemy. It has the power to bewitch, bending the victim's mind to its will. I feared you might face it on your journey, but as a result of Smaug. However, you and I have met since your encounter with him, and I saw you were free of it then. So I must assume you have encountered it since, and Thorin is the only other being down here who has the potential for its use."

"The potential for its… are you saying Thorin has been _controlling_ me?" Bilbo said. It was as if the ground had dropped out from beneath him. A tremor ran through him, at the memory of the pleading in Thorin's voice as he asked Bilbo to stay with him in his final days of consciousness and ease his passing. How Thorin had begged him not to let his family see him when his body was sick, his flesh ruined. Bilbo's throat constricted, and he could not tell if it was with anger or grief. Had there been malice in it? He did not… he _could_ not believe Thorin capable of that. Not when there had been such terrible sadness in his eyes.

But now with the veil lifted from his sight, Bilbo saw the failure of their bargain, saw himself giving in to Thorin's despair, and how he had no longer tried to navigate Thorin through it, but instead allowed it to drag him deeper. How had he not thought to question it? Why had he not tried harder to convince Thorin there was still hope?

And what else had been the dragon-spell? He thought of Thorin's fingers threaded through his own, his breath brushing Bilbo's lips and the feverish warmth of Thorin's forehead against his own. No, that had been real. Even as he felt he skirted a precipice, not knowing where lay solid ground and where a perilous drop into fear and doubt, he knew there was truth in that touch. Thorin had trembled against him, their noses brushing together and that too had been true. But the rest, oh the rest… Bilbo had to find him, had to drag him free of this, to know what had been real and what had been… betrayal. There was no other word for it; he felt sick and grief-stricken and _violated_. He…

"Calm yourself," Gandalf said, crouching down beside him. Bilbo still held Gandalf's wrist, but realized he had been in another world. Gandalf's expression was gentle.

"I'm not…" Bilbo protested.

"You've gone white as a sheet," Gandalf said. "Whatever your thoughts, I can assure you things are not as bad as they seem. The dragon-spell's hold upon you was very light, its power still in its infancy and clumsily applied. I highly doubt Thorin had even the _slightest_ idea of what he was doing, or that he could have made you do anything that, on some level, you did not wish to do."

Bilbo's eyes widened and his breath froze in his chest. His expression contorted in agony. "Gandalf, I was going to _kill _him."

"Perhaps," Gandalf said. His expression was grave but without any trace of accusation. "Or you may yet have stopped yourself. You were in the process of shaking free from the spell when we found you, and I have no doubt you could have succeeded on your own, given time. You are stronger than you give yourself credit for. Even if you had not, it would not be your fault, for I do not believe anyone should feel guilty for their thoughts or actions while bewitched," Gandalf said, and stood, leaning on his staff. "And I must confess, Thorin Oakenshield does tend to have that effect on members of every race."

Bilbo gave a startled, watery laugh, and felt some of the darkness ease from his heart. For Gandalf was right, there was still hope. Thorin lived, and Sting was back at the camp. He had the wizard here, and Bilbo could appreciate, on some level, why Thorin would have acted as he did, even if he fully intended to give the dwarf a thumping for it once he was cured.

The greatest wonder was really that neither of them had noticed that Thorin had suddenly become so persuasive, but then, this was the dwarf for whom Bilbo had crossed half the world because of a song. Bilbo banished the dark turn of his thoughts, at least for now, for it was unfair to sit in judgment of Thorin's motives when soon he could simply _ask_. Then a horrible thought struck him.

"You can help him, can't you, Gandalf?" Bilbo said apprehensively.

"That remains to be seen," Gandalf said. "But I will do whatever lies within my power, and I have high hopes. For so long as he has not fully changed, nor allowed the creature into his heart, then it should be a simple matter to cure him."

Bilbo breathed a sigh of relief, and dared not think of what he would have done had Gandalf answered differently. There was still the patch of skin on Thorin's cheek, and his form was still a long way from that of Smaug. They still had time, and the thought alone rose in him a rush of giddiness. Still… "Into his heart? Gandalf, what manner of curse _is _this?"

"A very old and wicked one, Master Baggins, as I'm sure you have seen. But old in this case does not mean strong. He who created it has long been banished from this world, bound beyond the reaches of the stars, and his lieutenants destroyed or in hiding. That Thorin suffers from it at all is more a function of how long Smaug lay here, and that Thorin did not wait for me to cleanse its taint before entering the mountain."

"So you _knew_?"

"I suspected," Gandalf corrected. "Dwarves are a hardy race, and may resist the curse for many weeks, but even the most stubborn usually seek help once the physical changes set in. There has not been a case of a dwarf succumbing before I or one of my order could lend aid in centuries, and those early cases, the unfortunate lost souls of the previous Ages, have for the most part been hunted from the earth. Only Smaug remained, and the danger was known."

"But why didn't you tell him?" Bilbo cried.

"Because it is a closely guarded secret of the dwarves, and not mine to tell," Gandalf said patiently. "There is a fear that, should it be widely known, there may be those who would deliberately seek it out, who would accept the price of the curse for the power it gives. I gave many warnings about the gold and the dragon sickness to Thorin, in as specific terms as I dared, for one as desperate as he could well be tempted by such power. Even so, the reality of it, which I hoped to avoid, should have been enough to have him come to me for help before it progressed too far."

Bilbo shook his head frantically. "You underestimate him," Bilbo said. "Gandalf, he would never allow himself to become a dragon, all of this time has been spent looking for another cure. But he _hates_ you for taking Bard and Thranduil's side, and may well never trust you again."

"He does not need to trust me, he only needs to accept my help long enough for me to expel the curse from his body. As of now, it should only be a simple possession by the spirit that lies within the gold, which would enter and change any dwarf who happened upon it. So long as Thorin remembers himself, and does not welcome the beast into his heart, I might still easily cast it out. But I will require his consent, and your aid in making sure he is able to give it. Otherwise, there is indeed nothing I, or anyone else, could do."

A prickle ran down Bilbo's spine at Gandalf's words. There was that phrase again, "simple". Thorin was bound upon the throne, safe and still asleep. But Bilbo remembered Thorin's absolute certainty that something was coming, that when he awoke he would no longer have control of his own body or mind, and must be slain before that could happen.

"Then we should make haste," Bilbo said, tugging at Gandalf's wrist again. The wizard followed him unerringly through the halls, as if he already knew them well. But he did not try to cut in front of Bilbo, or predict his path.

At least, not until they entered the great vaulting hall where Bilbo had spent his last three days. When they did, Bilbo froze, and the wizard bumped into him from behind. He nearly knocked Bilbo over, but in truth anything heavier than a feather could have in that moment.

The throne was empty.

* * *

**IV**  
The eyes are not here  
There are no eyes here  
In this valley of dying stars  
In this hollow valley  
This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

* * *

**Author Note****:** Thank you for reading! Please check out this story on AO3 or my Tumblr account (blog name: Avelera) for further notes, fanart, fanvid trailers, and other supporting material for this fic.

I do hope you're enjoying the story so far, and would greatly appreciate hearing your thoughts. Even the smallest comment can chase the course of this author's day!


	14. Chapter 14

**Part 2**

_The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a millrace in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced and delighted me like wine._

- Robert Louis Stevenson

* * *

Thorin drowned.

The hurricane was upon him, and when it broke it did so with the tearing roar of a thunderclap, the rending of Thorin's body, as all he knew fell into darkness. Thorin's limbs spasmed and his eyelids twitched, but otherwise there was no outward sign of the storm within. Far away, a cup of tea was cooling in Bilbo's numb fingers, a hollow ache gnawing at his heart, and the dragon-spell lay across his mind like a veil. Thorin's breath rattled in his throat but he could not cry out, and no help came.

Where once the cold turn of his thoughts had been a small, dark corner of his mind waiting to prey upon him, Thorin now felt as if it surrounded him, that his own self was shrinking, the cold beating down against him. His first instinct—to fight, to strike out against the darkness that encircled him—shot new terror through him as his limbs only twitched but did not obey him.

Then with a wrenching, jerking feeling that sent vertigo churning through Thorin's stomach and left him bereft within his own mind, he stood outside of himself and, just as with that day in the treasury, looked upon himself. He looked, and wondered at this creature before him, this broken ruin of stone and obsidian, bound by knots it could so easily break, its head bowed, its chest rising in the even fall of sleep. Thorin saw, like sand running out through an hourglass, that last patch of soft flesh on its cheek flaking away. In its place emerged the hardened scale that now covered every inch of the ruined dwarf's body save for that vulnerable spot above the heart, which all dragons must guard.

A tremor ran through his body, the shifting of muscle and bone as the curse worked the first stages of the alchemy of transformation, as it prepared to rend flesh and bone asunder. But whatever had forced him from his body lay too heavy for him to move it, and only the tightening of its body, as every nerve and sinew snapped taut, told the story of that hidden agony.

_"Bilbo, help me …"_ Thorin breathed in the space between, this spectral world. He saw his own lips move in time with his words…

…Then the claws twitched, digging themselves into the stone arms of the throne, and knew _he_ had not done that.

The creature upon the throne opened its eyes, and looked straight at Thorin.

"Oh, come now, we need no assistance in this, I should think." The creature _smirked_, the expression so alien on Thorin's own features that he was stood transfixed. The the creature broke eye contact and looked to its left. It inhaled.

Fire sliced like a knife through the ropes that bound its right wrist. The ropes fell in a charred heap upon the floor, the ends smoking. Its now-free hand slashed the ropes that bound its left wrist in a single movement, parting them like cobwebs. It stood, looking back at Thorin and beckoning for him with its claw.

"Why do you linger out there?" the creature said. "Return."

It was as if chains being wrapped around Thorin's chest and dragged him foreword. He jerked away on instinct, digging his heels in insofar as he could in this incorporeal world. It made no sense to him, how he could stand hereand be _there_ at the same time. He only knew that the being that looked out from his own ruined body was not him, and it sent through a wave of raw and dizzying terror.

"You resist?" the creature mused. "If we do not leave soon, they will find us. Do you not hear them, O King? Do you not smell them?" The creature jerked its chin towards the honeycomb of corridors that led towards the treasury. "You are betrayed. Just as you were when you first allowed me in."

Ice flooded Thorin's veins as he stared at the creature before him. He turned, looking the way the creature had indicated, and their voices came to him, floating on the subterranean breeze along with their familiar scents. It was as if they stood before him, his senses grown so sharp they were almost painful.

_"…Did you manage to find Thorin?"_

_"We've been worried about you!"_

Fíli and Kíli. In Erebor, when not an hour before he had begged Bilbo let him keep at least that shred of dignity. To hear them after so long was like lightning through Thorin's mind, and on its heels came anguish, swift and sharp and agonizing, twisting in his heart like a knife's blade.

"No. No, he would not. He agreed…" Thorin said, and was pitifully aware of the falsehood in his own words even as he spoke them. Why should Bilbo not disobey him again, when he had already done so once, and for much higher stakes, for Erebor itself? Why should these past three days have made any difference at all? Gandalf he might have accepted but this, this was far too much and though he was not in his own body he felt he could not breathe, that his vision spun and narrowed at the edges as panic clamped off his breath like hands clenching around his throat.

"Your burglar is not coming," the creature said. "At least, not alone. Strange, that one you thought so loyal would betray you again so soon. Or perhaps not strange at all. Loyalty and honor seem a rare commodity in your life, O King."

Despair surged through Thorin and he opened his mouth to retort, to deny the creature's word, but felt something _shift_ within him, the tipping of a balance, washing through him as darkness rose around him, not in shredded flakes as it had in the library, but a tide that rushed in, swallowed his vision, dragged him down. He did not even have time to cry out as it dragged him down, only saw with his last moment the creature grinning at him with all its teeth.

* * *

_The dragon felt the struggle, felt the spike of panic, and then as despair swallowed the second consciousness and sent it spiraling down into sleep. After that it was all too easy for the dragon to do as it willed, now in full possession as it was of their shared body. _

_The dragon left the throne room. Now it sought that final barrier: the Halfling that had so often thwarted and driven it back, who even now kept Thorin's mind and heart separate from its own. _

* * *

The throne was empty.

Bilbo froze, but the pause was brief before he was running again. He stopped at the throne, muttering, "No, no, no…" as he picked up the ropes that had fallen to either side of the throne, one end blackened by fire, the other shredded. "I- I don't understand," he choked, looking back over his shoulder at Gandalf. "He was just here." Bilbo stared back at the throne, at the stone that had become so familiar in these past three days of keeping watch on Thorin, so recent and yet feeling so long ago all at once.

"This is where you left him?" Gandalf said, coming alongside him.

"It couldn't have been more than an hour ago; he was asleep…" Bilbo said. Gandalf leaned in and gave a soft exclamation as he saw the char marks on the ropes.

"He is already breathing flames?" Gandalf said. Bilbo shivered. There was something in Gandalf's tone, a wariness that had not been there before. It was never comforting to hear a wizard surprised. "How far has the malady progressed?"

"Mostly scales," Bilbo said miserably, feeling the echo of that aching hollowness as he had watched Thorin's skin consumed day by day. He closed his eyes against the image. "Claws. H-he doesn't need to eat anymore, or drink. I saw him breathe fire once, but he didn't have any control over it." And he had joked about it then, joked so that he didn't do something so foolish as scream. And Thorin had stormed off, as if the fire that had just come from his mouth was some embarrassing social faux pas, and Bilbo had chastised Thorin for his grouchiness, not forcing the issue, not leaving then and there for aid, and Bilbo's own misery only increased at the memory.

"Control or not, if he has already changed enough to breathe fire…" Gandalf said, and shook his head. "It has been an Age since I have heard of so swift a transformation. Not since a darker power bent its will to acquiring new servants."

"A darker power?" Bilbo said, coming out of his musings, feeling a new wave of trepidation. "I should think Smaug the darkest power there is. 'Calamity of our Age' and whatnot

"There is another power, a greater one," Gandalf said. "But he is far from here, chased from his fortress of Dol Guldur, his power there unmade. Regardless of whether he was fully destroyed, or has simply gone once more into hiding, he should have no influence here."

Gandalf spoke slowly, as if searching out the shape of a thought that had not yet fully formed, and as he did a creeping anxiety filled Bilbo. It seemed the shadows grew darker with each word, and Bilbo's hand went compulsively to his waistcoat pocket. Gandalf's eyes flickered at the movement.

Bilbo pulled his hand free again, his fingers just inches from tracing the smooth surface of his little ring. It made him feel squirmy and uncomfortable to hear of the problems of the great, dark forces and ancient enemies. It all seemed very far away, and happily so, for a hobbit such as he. Such matters were better left to elves and wizards. Though it did occur to him that he might need to adjust his thinking a little, he who had exchanged riddles with a dragon and stolen from the Elvenking. But that had been a different matter altogether!

"But Smaug was here for so long, and there's so much gold. Could that not have something to do with it?" Bilbo said.

Gandalf considered this, his lips twisting as he did so, before he finally nodded. "You are probably right," Gandalf said. "It has been many centuries since a dragon has spent so long undisturbed over such a quantity of gold, and there is the problem of Thorin's family to consider. The gold sickness lies heavy upon the Longbeard clan, and Durin's line in particular, for they are the most direct descendants of the Indrafangs of old. That could well explain why it would take him so swiftly," said Gandalf.

"But there is still hope?" Bilbo said anxiously.

"My dear Bilbo, there is always hope. Though I must apologize if I appeared dismissive of Thorin's illness earlier. It had not occurred to me that it could have spread so far in only a few days. I had thought we could put this whole matter behind us, but if he is already at the tipping point…"

"Tipping point?" Bilbo echoed.

"Breathing fire means the curse has gone beyond the superficial. It is beginning to change his flesh and bone; it may well begin to change his mind. We have very little time," said Gandalf.

"Then we must find him straightaways," Bilbo said, rising to his feet, and allowing the ropes to slither free of his hand to coil on the floor.

"First there here is another task I must attend to, to remove the curse from the gold, and ensure the sickness does not spread further. Already I fear for Fíli and Kíli, and if we are to get the aid of the other dwarves in finding him it must be cleansed first. It will do little for Thorin present state, but I dare not leave the matter a moment longer, not when the curse has proven to be so virulent," said Gandalf and as he spoke he began to walk, beckoning for Bilbo to follow him as they traveled the long pathway back to the throne.

"Will it take long?" said Bilbo, trotting to keep up.

"It would have when you first came down here, for at the time I was not yet recovered from the assault on Dol Guldur. But I have spent these last days gathering strength and preparing myself. Part of my purpose in coming on this venture was to cleanse the gold should Erebor be reclaimed, and it was my intention to do so before any be allowed to enter the mountain. The possibility that I would be called away, that Smaug would be slain while I was gone, or that any would be so foolish as to linger alone inside the mountain before I arrived were all unexpected elements. This has become quite a fine mess, Bilbo, not the least because of those three outside. I intend to have some stern words with Thorin Oakenshield once we find and cure him. Much could have been avoided if he had only _listened_ to me," said Gandalf with a huff of exasperation.

"I'm afraid you'll have to get in line to get your chance for those words," Bilbo said grimly. He went quiet for a moment, frowning as they came to the end of the path, where it broadened into the larger hall. Bilbo stopped, and nodded to himself. "Right. You return to the treasury, I will search for Thorin."

Gandalf frowned, stopping as well and leaning on his staff as he looked down at Bilbo. "I do not believe that would be wise. If his illness has advanced as far as you say, Thorin could be erratic. Once I have cleansed the gold we may call the rest of the Company to aid us in our search. They can be trusted to protect Thorin's reputation and to face him in combat, if necessary."

"Summon the-? Gandalf, we don't have _time_ for that, and Thorin would be furious if we did!" said Bilbo.

"Bilbo," Gandalf said patiently, "even if we did search now, we would not likely find him. He knows the paths and halls of Erebor better than any. But the disease will draw him to the gold. Waiting for him in the treasury is our best course of action at present."

Bilbo frowned, looking towards the treasury, then back into the wider halls of Erebor. A part of him rebelled at the thought of abandoning Thorin on a wizard's say-so. But there was reason in Gandalf's words and he sighed, his shoulders falling.

"Right," Bilbo said. "The treasury it is."

They turned towards the treasury, and as they entered those shadowed halls, Gandalf pressed a hand to the gnarled top of the staff he carried, whispering words Bilbo could not understand. The staff flashed alight, glowing white and banishing some of the shadows, but deepening the ones that remained. Bilbo flinched away from the brightness, feeling his dark vision burn away, and grudgingly took his place trailing a few steps behind Gandalf as they navigated the halls.

That was when he heard it: the rustle and scrape of claws on stone.

Bilbo stopped and turned, peering into the darkness beyond the light of Gandalf's staff. His own shadow grew long before him, black upon the floor, stretched thin and growing thinner as Gandalf continued to walk. The tread of Gandalf's boots receded behind him, but Bilbo hardly noticed, focused as he was, listening for another sound.

"Thorin?" Bilbo whispered, and his own voice echoed back at him. Nothing moved in the dark that was somehow deeper now with the passing of Gandalf's staff. All of Erebor seemed darker, the dusty hollows echoing with the wind like the moaning of its ghosts. Somewhere its king wandered those halls, lost within his own flesh and mind.

Bilbo shivered and turned away. Gandalf had turned down the one of the hallways that made up the many corridors between the throne room and the treasury, but the light still glowed and cast Gandalf's shadow behind it. Bilbo opened his mouth to call for the wizard, to bid him slow down—

A hand closed around his mouth.

Bilbo seized, his fingers coming instinctively to claw at the iron grip, and his scream fell flat against the hard, scaled flesh. Then the second arm came up to wrap around his shoulders, pinning his upraised hands to his chest. His head snapped to the side as he was jerked sideways and pulled off his feet. Bilbo's mind went blank, and the light of Gandalf's staff grew dimmer as it receded around the corner.

A voice scraped across his ear and through the blank panic he only knew that it _was not Thorin_. It was pitched too high, sibilant and mocking, but he could not understand the word it spoke. Khuzdûl, it had to be Khuzdûl, and he heard the grinding of stone and stared wide-eyed as a door hewed itself from the stone, and opened at his captor's bidding.

Bilbo's eyes widened and he kicked out, dragging his heels on the floor to push himself back from the inky blackness of the doorway, struggling and tearing at his captor's grip as he was dragged across the threshold.

The door shut behind them.

The grip vanished and Bilbo fell to the ground. His breath thundered in his ears and he stumbled back, searching with his fingers and nails for any sign of the door they had come in. _Dwarf doors are invisible when closed…_

"No, no I will_ not_…"

Bilbo froze, a chill dripping down his back at the sound of Thorin's voice pitched in a low snarl, speaking to the empty air. Bilbo turned, and only at the last second remembered to lower his gaze against the dragon-spell. But even out of his peripheral vision, Bilbo saw him; the corpse-light glow of Thorin's eyes was the only light in that room. He was not looking at Bilbo, but was bent double, a clawed hand pressed to his forehead and his face twisted in agony.

Then a high, rasping chuckle came from Thorin's lips that made Bilbo's hair stand on end.

"_Not yet, perhaps, but soon. How many more betrayals will you accept_?"

"Thorin?" Bilbo said, his voice trembling. And part of him could have cried with relief to see him again after the throne, still alive, still there to be saved.

The rest of him felt it would die of terror.

"Let me deal with him in my own way. You will stay _back_," Thorin snarled in his own low voice. With that he stood and Bilbo could see, by gait and posture, that it _was_ Thorin. He turned and looked at Bilbo, like a creature carved of dark granite, the light of his eyes growing brighter as Bilbo's eyes adjusted. Bilbo's breath caught in his throat and he pressed his back to the wall as Thorin advanced towards him, stopping just in front of him and placing his hands against the wall on either side of Bilbo's head.

_Let us out_, Bilbo thought, but was too petrified to bring the words to his lips. Thorin was leaning against him, so close he could feel the stir of his breath, his body trapping Bilbo against the stone. But it was Thorin, at least, not whatever had been the source of that hissing, mocking voice. Thorin was fighting it, pushing it back, and there was still hope. They could fetch Gandalf, they could find Thorin his cure, they could—

"Tell me, burglar," Thorin snarled. "Did you wait even an _hour_ before going to fetch my kin?"

* * *

In this last of meeting places  
We grope together  
And avoid speech  
Gathered on this beach of the tumid river

* * *

**Author Note:** Apologies for the delay, guys! This should be the only bad one, this chapter really had it in for me. Thank you for your patience and if you have a moment, please consider leaving a review. It would really mean a lot to me after the sheer agony that this chapter has been ^_^


	15. Chapter 15

"Tell me, burglar," Thorin snarled. "Did you wait even an _hour_ before going to fetch my kin?"

"I—I—" Bilbo said in a strangled whisper. He trembled and pressed himself flat against the cold stone of the wall, his eyes screwed shut against the dragon-spell gaze. Then Bilbo felt the brush of scales as Thorin moved in close, and hot breath bathed his neck. His heart thundered in his chest, wild and terrified.

There was a warm touch against Bilbo's face and suddenly Thorin was pressing their foreheads together, and he released a choked sob, his voice broken and erratic, half-mad as he said, "Why didn't you _listen_ to me?"

Bilbo stilled. Finally he heard, over the pounding of his own heart, the uneven pace of Thorin's breathing, thick and frantic as if on the edge of tears or hysteria. Bilbo raised a shaking hand, not knowing if it was safe to do so, whether it was _suicidal._ Fumbling blind, he trailed his fingers up Thorin's chest, over the hard slick scales that covered it, and clasped his hand around the back of Thorin's neck. Even while he knew he should be terrified, there was a part of him that was already calming, because Thorin was _here_, alive, when not hours before Bilbo had thought him lost forever. Bilbo's heart lurched at the ridge of scales that ran up Thorin's spine to the back of his neck, barring the way for his hand, so Bilbo moved his fingers up to where the ridges was smaller, and traced them along the back of Thorin's neck to soothe him. A shudder passed through Thorin, wracking him from head to toe.

"Shhh, Thorin… Thorin, I had nothing to do with that," Bilbo murmured. "They came on their own."

Thorin was silent for a long moment, his breath coming out in feverish pants, tickling the tip of Bilbo's nose. "I wish I could believe you," Thorin said, sounding utterly wretched.

"And why can't you?" Bilbo said, his fingers tracing circles on the nape of Thorin's neck and he could feel the tension bleeding out of Thorin from that spot and radiating outwards.

"Because you have already been false once," Thorin said, his voice cracking. "I have always wished that I could believe you, for the world seems a brighter place when I do, but you lied when I trusted you. You told me you did not possess the Arkenstone when you did, and I cannot suffer that again. Do you understand, Bilbo? I would not survive it, and now my heart tells me again that you are false."

"It's not your heart, Thorin," Bilbo said gently. "It's this place, this sickness. I swear I didn't summon them, I wouldn't have had _time_. Fíli and Kíli came here because they were worried about you, because they care for you."

"But for how much longer, once they have seen this?" Thorin said, and broke away from Bilbo's grasp. He must have gestured towards himself; but with his eyes closed Bilbo only felt the movement of the air. There was a pause. "Even you cannot bear to look upon me."

Bilbo's breath caught in his throat. "Thorin, no! It's not like that— Oh, blast!" How could he explain the dragon-spell, when it would undoubtedly make matters worse? If Thorin already believed himself beyond saving, how would he react to learning that he had hypnotized Bilbo to stay with him during those long days upon the throne? Bilbo did not yet know himself what had been his own will, and what had been the dragon-spell. Instead he bit his tongue, swallowing back the words. "Listen to me: Fíli and Kíli…they're your family, they only want to help. We can still fix this. Gandalf is outside—"

Thorin laughed. It was not his usual soft, almost shy chuckle. It was barking, disdainful, and carried the edges of the higher, mocking tone of the other voice. "Ah yes, Gandalf," Thorin hissed. "That is what this is about, is it not? What is has always been about."

_Unraveling_. The word appeared unbidden amongst the swirling confusion in Bilbo's head. Thorin was unraveling. He had seen it once before, in those first days after they entered the mountain, when Thorin had tilted wildly between euphoria at reclaiming their home and despair as he looked on the smoking ruin of Laketown, not daring to leave the mountain or give up his manic search for the Arkenstone. Bilbo knew he must be careful with what he said next, but was too baffled to think straight. His thoughts chased the thread of how _Gandalf_, of all people, could somehow be at the heart of this matter, and he felt himself to be walking on crumbling stone as Thorin swung from one extreme of emotion to another in the blink of an eye.

Bilbo took a deep breath, screwing up his courage and wrinkling his nose as he attempted to master his scattering thoughts. He spoke slowly. "I can't say as I follow you. We were looking for a cure, and Gandalf has one. Why not leave here now, and put this all behind us?"

"And in exchange, I need only place myself back under the power of an enemy, and allow him to work his witchcraft upon me?" said Thorin scornfully.

"We've been over this," Bilbo sighed. "You and Gandalf need never speak again if you don't wish to. But go to him for help this one last time, please."

"Go to him? You would like that very well, wouldn't you?" Thorin said, his voice low and dangerous. "You have never been what you seem, have you burglar? It is only a wonder that I did not see it sooner. I was blinded, first thinking you were only a simple hobbit, and then by affection, just as I was meant to. You were well suited to this quest, chosen with care, possessing unknown _quality_."

Now Bilbo was thoroughly baffled. Were the situation not so dire, and Thorin's voice not harsh as scraping stone, he might have barked a startled laugh. Being acknowledged for his accomplishments on the quest was one thing, but this was... well, this really wasn't what he had in mind at all. "What are you trying to say?"

"What should have been obvious from the start. You say you are not a warrior, yet you slay wargs and spiders in battle as if you were born to it. You say you are not a thief, but found a manner to walk past goblins and elves unseen. Why would you come on this quest and claim no desire for treasure or glory? Why was it _you_ that Gandalf sent to find me within the mountain, even when I had banished you and would have cast you to the rocks?" Bilbo felt the passage of Thorin's movement and dared crack open an eye for a moment to stare at the floor. Thorin was circling in front of him as he spoke, as he had when they first met at Bag End, but the movement was tighter, more savage, like that of a caged animal. The tone of his voice was colder still, as if all they had gone through together since had never happened. "I will tell you why. Ever has the wizard sought to rule here on his own terms. He sent my father first, and when he failed, Gandalf lured me here with my heirs, then forbade us to enter unless he should come with us. Only you, of all the company, tried to stop us. Even now you act upon his will, seeking to put me back under his power," Thorin hissed. "The spy in our midst."

"A _spy_?" Bilbo gaped. "A spy indeed! Thorin, that is the most absurd idea I have ever heard. As if Gandalf would ever think _I_ would have influence over _you_? Or that any of what has happened was intentional on my part; for goodness sake I didn't even have the presence of mind to bring a pocket-handkerchief, let alone enact some master scheme!"

Thorin stopped his pacing and must have been regarding Bilbo. "No influence over me? I have taken your advice over that of my closest kin, and even now you seek to sway me. But reason tells me to study again all that you have done and see the pattern for what it is, rather than what I wish it to be. You are too good to be true, too perfectly suited to your purpose to be anything else. You have even found a way into my heart. Even as I look at you and feel as if I am being torn in two." Thorin closed his hands around Bilbo's shoulders and he flinched away, expecting the bite of claws even through the mithril shirt. Yet the touch was surprisingly gentle. "You saved my life, then stole the Arkenstone, helped me reclaim the mountain, then robbed me of my kin when they took your side against me. You gave me hope of release from this sickness, then violated my final wishes. I feel I'm being driven mad by the very sight of you. I wish to kill you and yet I wish to keep you." Thorin let out a long, shuddering breath. "Which should I choose?"

"I think would rather be kept, if it's all the same to you," Bilbo stuttered, nodding frantically.

"And yet I have never been allowed to keep that which I care for, burglar. How convenient now that I need only give in to my enemy in order to have all I desire within my grasp. How could it _not_ be a trick?" demanded Thorin.

"How _could_ it be a trick?" Bilbo exclaimed. He felt himself grow incensed, as the situation spiraled away from him in the most baffling manner possible. "You have no enemies here, save for that thing inside your head! How could I be trying to trick you when I'm frightened half out of my mind? I don't know what is happening or when this will end. I just want to leave this place, I just want this all to be _over_!"

"Then why did you_ stay_?" Thorin said, the grip at Bilbo's shoulders tightening. "Why did you not flee sooner, if you will only disobey my wishes, and cannot bear to look at me? Why did you linger, if not for some other motive?"

"_Because I love you!_" Bilbo said and the words were sharp as a cry that rose from the depths of the soul. He was too stunned, turned around, and desperately afraid to stop them. "I've loved you from the moment you first sang, from the moment I ran out my door after you!" And Bilbo was clutching at Thorin, dragging him close by the shoulders, because it was that or lose him again. Bilbo's heart still ached from the throne, and he could not bear the thought of that loss, not another, or surely he would break. "I love you, and I almost lost you because of that damned stone, and I am losing you again to this sickness, and I will not be silent and proper a moment longer! It doesn't matter how much I want to leave this place or how frightened I am, because I will never leave you here alone! Do you understand me, Thorin Oakenshield? I will fight for you, and I will stand by your side so long as there is even a _shred_ of hope, and I would stay even if there were none! Not because of a wizard's orders, or for treasure or fame. I am staying for_ you_!"

With each word, the terror had drained away to leave something sharper and far more painful, and Bilbo panted as if he had run a race. Once he would have been mortified to say so much, but that was before the Arkenstone, the great battle, and the sickness. He had not spoken these words on the throne, and thought to never have the chance. The thought alone had left a scar on his heart that even having Thorin in his arms, breathing and alive, though driven mad by suspicion, could not heal. Even now, they may have only hours left together.

Thorin's silence was not helping as it stretched, and Bilbo did not dare look up at him. He could not risk the dragon-spell; he could not risk falling back into that place of claustrophobic despair, bound up and convinced that there was no hope. He needed to be strong enough for both of them. Eyes fixed on the floor, Bilbo knew nothing of what was going through Thorin's mind, only that he had gone still beneath his hands.

"Please don't do this," Thorin said, and for all that Bilbo could feel him looming above, his voice sounded small. "Not this. Use any other weapon against me, kill me if you must, but I beg you do not attempt to manipulate me with this."

"You don't believe me," Bilbo said. His shoulders sank, and his voice was as hollow as his heart suddenly felt.

"I have done nothing but insult you and ignore your worth. I have chased and terrorized you. I have almost killed you. These things alone might have justified your theft, as a matter of revenge. How could you harbor anything but hatred and disgust for me? I should not _dare_ believe you." Bilbo parted his lips to protest but choked on the words, not knowing how even to begin. He felt his heart was shattering, and his mind going blank, not knowing what he could say if Thorin rejected this, if even the most desperate of confessions was not enough to get through to him. Then Thorin was moving, and Bilbo knew that he was leaving, that there was nothing further that could be done—

—And suddenly Bilbo was being drawn close, crushed against Thorin's chest and he felt Thorin bury his face against the side of his neck and they were flush against each other and he could hear the harsh flutter of Thorin's breath against his throat and his heart hammering in his chest and the warmth of Thorin's body surrounding him. "But I do. Mahal help me, I believe you. Though I am surrounded by enemies, and all hands are turned against me, I believe you. And I am afraid for how much I want it to be true, knowing how it clouds my reason. Even now my heart tells me you have simply found this greatest of weapons, and seek to use it against me. All I can do is beg that, if you lie, that you take back your words now, and not toy with this last hope that remains to me. Not this. Please."

Thorin's face was hot against his neck, and Bilbo trembled, fearing he would burst into tears again from the force and desperation of Thorin's words. He freed his hands from where they were pressed between them and twined them around Thorin's shoulders, drawing him close, his right hand coming up to cup the back of Thorin's head. He felt he could not speak yet, not and trust his own voice to take on the calm and steadiness this moment demanded, so he only held Thorin in the silence while his own breathing slowed and his throat lost its tightness. There was too much to say, too much to ask, and his thoughts whirled until it appeared to him, a single question that felt long forgotten, that he thought to never would have answered, and Bilbo knew he must know.

"_Men lananubukhs menu_," Bilbo murmured, and settled his cheek against Thorin's hair. "What does that mean, Thorin?"

For a moment there was only the harsh sound of Thorin's breathing, still quick and desperate and when he spoke the words were choked as if torn from his throat. "It means 'I love you'."

_Ah_, Bilbo sighed within his thoughts, and realized on some level that he had always known. But now they had both said it aloud, and no amount of dwarvish stubbornness or his own fretful misunderstandings could undo it. "And is that still true?"

There was another pause as Thorin took a shaky breath that fluttered against Bilbo's skin. "Yes."

"In that case, _m__en lananubukhs menu_, Thorin Oakenshield," Bilbo repeated softly. His tongue stumbled around the unfamiliar syllables, but it was worth it for the effect it had on Thorin, how every muscle in his body seemed to tense and then relax at the same time. "I love you, and I want to say that many times, over many years. I would say it now in Elvish, if I did not fear that would give you apoplexy."

Thorin snorted a laugh and it was such an unexpected, welcome sound that Bilbo could not stop the wide grin that spread over his face.

"And this is why you followed me here?" Thorin said and something of that haunted, erratic tone was fading in favor of his familiar rumble.

"It's why I followed you half-way across the _world_, poor love-struck fool that I was, never mind down a nasty, clockless, timeless hole," said Bilbo.

"Don't call my palace a nasty hole," Thorin grumbled against his neck. "You wait until it has been cleaned and redecorated."

Bilbo threw back his head and laughed in great aching peals. That horrible sick feeling was diminishing and his muscles relaxing. A few latent tears prickled the corner of his eyes but mostly he felt light, with the burden removed from his shoulders and heart. "There's nothing I'd like better. Now love, if you would be so kind, would you consider saying the word that opens that door?"

"The door?" Thorin said, and Bilbo was only just able to close his eyes in time as Thorin looked at him. "I can't."

"What? Why not?" Bilbo said.

Thorin shook his head. "I don't remember coming here. Bilbo, I don't know where we are."

* * *

Sightless, unless  
The eyes reappear  
As the perpetual star  
Multifoliate rose  
Of death's twilight kingdom  
The hope only  
Of empty men.

* * *

**Quotes**

_"Dear me!" grumbled the hobbit. "More walking and more climbing without breakfast! I wonder how many breakfasts, and other meals, we have missed inside that nasty clockless, timeless hole?"..._  
_..."Come, come!" said Thorin laughing— his spirits had begun to rise again, and he rattled the precious stones in his pockets. "Don't call my palace a nasty hole! You wait till it has been cleaned and redecorated!"_  
- The Hobbit, by J.R.R. Tolkien (p. 243)

**Translation**  
_Men lananubukhs menu_ - I love you (Khuzdûl)**  
**

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**Author Note:** Thank you for reading! This chapter was quite an emotional roller-coaster to write, and I do apologize for the delay. Remember you can check me out on Tumblr or AO3 under the name Avelera, and there see some of the lovely works of fanart some readers have done for this fic.

If you have a moment, please consider leaving a review. It is the only payment I ask in return for the hours spent writing this fic.


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